


The Storm that Comes After the Calm

by 17stepstobakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: "don't move", "stay with me", Adrenaline, Asphyxiation, Bleeding Out, Delirium, Dragged away, Embrace, Explosion, Human shield, Humiliation, Isolation, John Whump, M/M, Muffled Screams, Ransom, Recovery, Scars, Secret Injury, Shaky Hands, Sherlock Whump, Stitches, Tear-stained, Trembling, Unconscious, Whump, Whumptober, abandoned, beaten, gunpoint, hallucination, laced drink, numb, pinned down, shackled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 22,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26764078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17stepstobakerstreet/pseuds/17stepstobakerstreet
Summary: A collection of Whumptober writings with our favorite boys, John and Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 47
Kudos: 105





	1. Shaky Hands

“Sh-Sherlock!” John said, stumbling unsteadily while running towards Sherlock who was kneeling on hands and knees, gasping in breaths and coughing. John fell to the ground in front of Sherlock and pulled him into a tight hug, rocking him back and forth, trying to ignore his own unsteady breathing. Over Sherlock’s shoulder, he saw Greg yanking a struggling man away from them. 

John had to clench his fingers tightly in Sherlock’s coat to stop him from running after the man who had wrapped his hands around his lover's neck and squeezed with the intention to kill.

“John,” Sherlock croaked out, burying his face into the junction between John’s neck and shoulder, his tears wetting the warm, smooth skin there.

“Don’t speak, Sherlock, you’ll make it worse,” John said, his voice shaking as he rocked Sherlock comfortingly, the adrenaline in his system starting to wear off, leaving him feeling hollow and shaken.

After countless minutes of hugging, rocking, crying, comforting, John stroked the back of Sherlock’s neck with his thumb. “Will you let me look at it?” Sherlock didn’t reply, only pulled away from John and looked up, showing his neck to John.

John’s vision went red. His hands shook. Every muscle in his body clenched in an effort to not run after the man who did this. Tears sprung to his eyes. 

_I’ll kill him._

On Sherlock’s beautiful, long, slender throat, was an ugly bruise in the form of hands, wrapping themselves fully around his neck. John crawled around to look at the back of his neck and could count each individual finger mark. John prodded carefully at Sherlock’s neck, trying to ignore the winces, trying to tell if there was any permanent damage.

His hands were trembling. He brought them up and buried them in Sherlock’s hair to hide the shaking, and when he pulled Sherlock in to kiss him, the tears ran.

_I’m going to kill him for this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This year, I decided to try and do Whumptober. I'm not sure if I'm using last years list or this years (or a combination of the two), so just stick with me please! I hope you enjoy!


	2. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was on his knees, digging through rubble with bleeding hands.

Sherlock was on his knees, digging through rubble with bleeding hands (he didn’t care, _needed_ to keep digging, keep digging), screams tearing through his throat (couldn’t tell what he was saying, words in his head were jumbling together, all he could think was John John _John_ ), tears dripping down his face.

It had been so stupid of him, so idiotic to leave John alone at Baker Street with the threats that were coming in the mail everyday.

‘I’ll kill that little pet of yours.’

‘When will you see that he’s _useless_?’

‘I could do so much better. I’ll get him out of the way, then you’ll see.’

When Sherlock had come back from the shops (the _shops_ , he left John alone at Baker Street for the _shops_ , he’d never go shopping ever again), Sherlock dropped the shopping on the concrete and ran into the building, ignoring the law enforcement that were trying to get him to stay back.

There had been an explosion while he was gone. An explosion, in Baker Street, where John had been alone, while Sherlock was out at the _shops_.

Now he’s kneeling on the floor, ripping through the debris covering the floor, hoping that John was somewhere in there, alive (please _GodFuck you_ , he thought, his aching fingers still dripping blood. _Who ever made Baker Street explode while John was in it, fuck you._

“Sherlock…” John said, cracking his eyes open to look at the hysteric detective. “I’m fine, Sherlock.” With his good arm, John lifted his hand to place a bloody hand on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock let out another sob and covered John’s hand with his own.

“I thought- I thought I had lost you, John. Lost you, just so I could go out and get the _shopping_ ,” Sherlock said, bowing his head over John’s body. He realized, though, that John was still stuck and threw himself back into removing the rubble with renewed vigor.

The second he got John’s legs uncovered (his uninjured, beautiful legs, all in one piece) he lifted him carefully, tucking John’s head into the crook of his neck, and carried John to the ambulance waiting outside Baker Street, trying to ignore John hissing in pain.

As Sherlock carefully set John down on the portable gurney and kissed John’s forehead, John tugged on his sleeve and said, “Thank you, ‘Lock.”

Then he closed his eyes, and passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed! Likes and Kudos give me life, and help me stay motivated to write this for you guys!


	3. Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learned to hate winter after moving in with John.

Sherlock learned to hate winter after moving in with John. People got sick in the winter, which meant _John_ got sick in the winter.

The winter brought fever, and the fever brought delirium. And the repeated breaking of Sherlock’s heart.

Sherlock, taking a deep breath, pushed himself into John's room with a bowl of cold water and a cloth in one hand. John was sprawled over the bed, his skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat, thrashing slightly.

Sherlock tried to push all of that out of his mind as he sat the bowl down and wrung the cloth out, preparing to put it on John’s forehead. As he turned, he noticed John’s eyes were wide open and staring at the corner of the bedroom. His heart sunk.

_Please, no, not this again._

“The man,” John said quietly, his voice raspy. “The man’s in the corner, he has the hammer, and the knife, and the gun.” His eyes widened, and he nodded his head slowly, as if he didn’t quite realize that he was doing it. “He wants to use the kettle in our kitchen,” John said faintly, explaining to someone that Sherlock could not see. “He just wants some tea. I told him he could use it. We have more than enough tea, don’t we? I think-” He cut himself off as his gaze cut sharply to Sherlock, his eyes sharpening.

“Who are you?” John said, his fever state doing a pale imitation of the John that Sherlock knows. Sherlock swallows as he squeezes the wet cloth in his hands, trying to push back the sobs he could already feel building up in his throat. “I don’t know you, do I? Why the fuck are you in my flat?”

Sherlock stood up, tears welling up in his eyes, his hands raising into a defensive position. “John, it’s me, Sherlock. I’m your flatmate, your partner, remember?” Sherlock asked, nearly pleading. He hated the delirium, hated that it made John momentarily forget who he was. John’s hands clenched angrily in the blankets, and Sherlock bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Get out of my bloody room!” John rasped, his eyes verging on dangerous.

“John, please, I-” Sherlock swallowed, cutting himself off. “John, you know me, please-”

“GET OUT!” John shouted, his eyes cloudy. 

_It’s just the delirium. Just the delirium. He knows who I am, it’s just the fever._

Sherlock ran out of the room, managing to shut the door and lean against it as the tears started running, covering his mouth with his hand so the sobs couldn’t escape.

_He’ll recognize me tomorrow, I know it. I just have to get through today._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and Kudos are my lifeblood


	4. Human Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next second, gunshots rang out.

John couldn’t quite remember how it had happened, or when it had happened. He only knew that he wished he had been paying more attention, wished he hadn’t been so lax.

They had been walking down the street together as they always did, Sherlock’s long legs tearing down the sidewalk as John tried to keep up with him. For some reason, John remembered Sherlock had said something funny and was snickering as John threw his head back to laugh.

That was right before _it_ had happened.

One second they were laughing, and the next, Sherlock was still and alert, squinting at the top of a building. Before John could ask him what was wrong, Sherlock pushed John against the nearest wall and covered John’s body with his own, tucking John’s head safely into his neck. The next second, gunshots rang out and Sherlock grunted, his body jerking roughly against John’s once, then twice. Panic slid down John’s throat and into his stomach, cold and suffocating.

“John,” Sherlock said, gasping and shaking against John. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think I’ve been shot.” He gasped again, and his legs seemed to give out. John barely caught him in time, trying to force words of comfort out of his mouth but unable to push them past the panic. When John grabbed him, Sherlock let out a pained moan and dug his fingers into John’s shoulders. “Yep, I’ve-” Another gasp. “Definitely been shot. Twice. Once in the-” A deep, shuddering breath. “Once in the right shoulder, once in my hip. Too bad-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John ground out, trying to adjust his hold on Sherlock without hurting the wounds more. “Just- just shut up, would you?” John’s panic made his hands shake, and he couldn’t quite get a good hold on Sherlock. He gritted his teeth and pushed back the sticky, wet feeling pushing up his throat, threatening to choke him. 

_We aren’t too far away from Bart’s, if I can get him there, everything will be fine. It will all be okay._

Sherlock rambled on as if he hadn’t heard John. “If I had gotten shot in the left shoulder, we could have matching bullet wounds. Wouldn’t that be romantic, John?” Sherlock asked, his voice starting to slur. John could feel the blood starting to seep heavily through the wool of Sherlock’s beloved Belstaff. “I’m ruining my coat, aren’t I?” Sherlock mumbled, his head lolling as John picked him up, one arm in the crook of his legs and one around his shoulders. “I don’t want to have to buy a new coat, John.” Swallowing loudly, John tried to push his panic away.

_Keep him talking, keep him awake. Please don’t let him die on me._

“I’ll buy you whatever coat you want, love. What kind of coat do you want?” John asked, carrying Sherlock towards Bart’s as quickly as he could without jostling the man.

“I think that I want your coat, John. It smells like you. Like home. I bet you didn’t even know you smelled like home,” Sherlock said, curling into John, groaning at the pain it causes him. John held him tighter, willing the tears not to run. “Well, I’m telling you right now. You smell very home-y.” 

“I believe you, Sherlock. Can you tell me why I smell like home?” John asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

_Just a few more block’s Sherlock, stay awake for just a few more blocks, for me._

“You smell like warmth. And happiness. And- and…” he seemed to drift off a little bit, before saying, “I feel a bit tired, John. I think I should sleep. Do you mind?” He asked, before giggling and shaking his head, snaking his arms tighter around John. “Of course you don’t, you’re John. You love it when I sleep.” John’s breath hitched, and he sped up a little bit, his gaze starting to blur.

“Please love, not this time, stay awake for me, okay?” John pleaded, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s clothes. “I need you to stay with me, can you do that for me?” Sherlock shook his head, pressing his face into John’s chest.

“I’ll wake up soon John, but I think I need to sleep for now. I just need… I’ll see you when I wake up,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut, his limbs going slack. John’s heart dropped as he sped up into a run.

“Sherlock Holmes, wake up right this second!” John shouted, tears streaming down his face as Bart’s hospital came into view.

_Please, God, let him live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And thank you for all of the support I'm getting with this, I really appreciate it! Again, comments and Kudos are my lifeblood and I really appreciate them


	5. Gunpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Really, you should put down that gun. It isn’t getting us anywhere, and honestly, do you want to stand there all night pointing that thing at me? It’ll get dreadfully boring.”

John slammed the door of one of Mycroft’s fancy cars shut and sprinted towards a building, internally cursing to himself the whole way.

_Buggery fucking shit, Sherlock Holmes, can’t you stay out of trouble for a few hours? Just a few fucking hours, that all I fucking want from you, but no, you have to fucking run away at every chance you get, throw yourself in the way of danger._

John stopped just before he slammed his shoulder into the boarded door in front of him, deciding to find a quieter way to slip in.

It didn’t take him long to find the small, rickety door at the side of the building and creep in, listening intently for voices and signs of danger. His ears perked up when he heard faint voices, and as he crept closer, he started to make out what they were saying.

“... really, you should put down that gun. It isn’t getting us anywhere, and honestly, do you want to stand there all night pointing that thing at me? It’ll get dreadfully boring,” John heard Sherlock drawl. John’s teeth gritted when he took in the cocky tone of his words, clenching and unclenching his hands and wishing for his gun.

“Shut up! I’ll put down the gun when I’m good and ready, which will be right after I put a bullet in your brain!” A shaky voice said, obviously belonging to a young man who was trying, and failing, to appear tough and mean. Sherlock sighed, and John could nearly hear the eye roll in his voice.

“I’ve already told you, I don’t have what you want, and killing me won’t do you any good,” Sherlock said, and as John crept up to the doorway, could see Sherlock lean forward in the chair just the slightest bit. “So how about you listen to me and put that thing down before someone shows up to fetch me.”

“Too late,” John said, stepping into the room, not flinching when the gun is whipped around to be pointed at him. He glances as Sherlock and notices a dark look in his eyes.

He ignores it.

“Who the hell are you?” The man says, his hands trembling. Sherlock sighs again and stands up, walking slowly towards John, his hands up slightly in front of him.

“You’ve managed to summon my very jealous, very strong boyfriend, so good on you for that. But,” Sherlock said, turning towards John, “I do not need you here John. I’ve got this under control, it’s best you leave before-“ 

In a blur of motion, the young man takes a mobile phone out of his pocket and slams his thumb down on one of the buttons, causing alarms to blare seconds later. Sherlock groans and rubs his hands over his face, grabbing John around the wrist and pulling him close, ignoring the now-trembling man in the room. He had dropped his gun, anyways, and wasn’t actually going to use it.

“Listen, John,” Sherlock whispered in a rush. “There are more men here, and they’re all armed, and that means I need you to get out of here for me right now. Got it? They’ll-“ The sound of boots clunking in the hall interrupted him, and Sherlock cursed, pulling John over to a second door in the room, shoving them both out of it and running down the hall. John could hear them catching up, but he didn’t care, only ran faster.

“Why didn’t Mycroft send more men, damn it!” Sherlock gritted out, weaving through halls, trying to lose the men tailing after them, still holding John’s wrist in a death grip.

“He didn’t think you needed them,” John said back, pushing his legs to go even faster as he heard the men catching up to them.

“Of course he didn’t, he never does, when will he learn that-“ Sherlock cut himself off with a gasp as a gunshot rings out, a bullet burying itself in his arm. “Fuck, that hurts!” Sherlock said, stumbling slightly and covering the wound with his other hand. John opens his mouth to say something, but when a sharp, white-hot pain blooms in the back of his right thigh, he swears and goes down for a few seconds, panting.

Sherlock pulls him back up and bears the majority of his weight, nearly carrying him and throwing them both into the black Sedan as it pulls up in front of the building. They promptly collapse against each other, their breathing ragged and uneven.

They’re bloody and tired, and John is worried about the profuse amount of blood that is dripping from Sherlock’s arm onto the seat of Mycroft’s car. He can tell Sherlock is worried about John’s leg injury, and what it will mean for them. But what matters is they’re safe.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! My apologies, this isn't by best, but I'm a bit tired tonight and I'm a little uninspired! But as always, comments and Kudos are my lifeblood


	6. Dragged Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was just not on.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, panting and struggling wildly in Lestrade’s grip. Just feet in front of him was Sherlock, tied up and being dragged away against his will. They had his hands tied behind his back and were dragging him backwards, pulling his arms behind his back too far, most likely dislocating Sherlock’s shoulders.

This was just not on.

“John,” Greg ground out, fighting hard to keep John in his grip. “They have a gun and I can’t let you run after them! Stop fighting me, you idiot!” John didn’t listen, could only hear Sherlock screaming and groaning in pain, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the dusty ground, trying to stop the men from pulling him any further.

“Like hell you can’t let me run after him!” John shouted, trying to free his arms from Lestrade’s surprisingly strong grip. Snarling, John pushed Greg to the ground and bolted after Sherlock, ignoring the shouting and swearing behind him. 

“John Watson, get the bloody hell back here!” Lestrade yelled, pushing himself off the ground and launching himself after John. It’s useless; John reaches the men long before Lestrade can reach John, and then there’s a scuffle. John quickly takes the gun from the man and hits him over the head with it, effectively knocking him out and giving John the time to punch the other man’s lights out, releasing the pressure he was keeping on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock seemed to whimper in relief, dust coating the tear tracks on his cheeks.

John wasted no time in untying the ropes from Sherlock’s wrists, the pained noises from Sherlock pushing John to yank harder at the knot, tearing the skin on his fingers in the process.

He didn’t care. 

As the knot finally came loose, Sherlock let out a sob and slumped against John, hiding his face in the crook of John’s neck, wetting the skin there with his hot tears. “John…” he groaned, cutting himself off with another heaving breath and another wave of tears.

“Shhh, don’t worry ‘Lock, it’ll all be okay,” John whispered to Sherlock, trying to distract him from what he was about to do. His arms were most definitely dislocated, which means it was John’s job to pop them back into place. He tried to slip into Doctor Mode, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t ignore the fact that it was Sherlock he was trying to fix. Taking a deep breath, he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead before putting his right shoulder joint back where it was supposed to be.

A scream ripped out of Sherlock’s throat, and before John let it register in his mind, he was popping the other joint back into place and Sherlock was screaming even louder, tensing up against John before sagging back and sobbing with more vigor than before.

“Shh, I’m sorry Sherlock, I had to do it,” John said comfortingly, scooping a limp Sherlock up into his arms, lifting him carefully off the ground and carrying him to the ambulance that Lestrade must have called for. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” John said, guilt starting to seep into his mind. Sherlock was panting from the pain, but when he looked up at John with tears spilling down his face, he smiled.

“Thank you, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a quick one, as I've been busy recently, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! I certainly enjoyed writing it. As always, comments and Kudos are my lifeblood and can keep me going for days on end


	7. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip._

_Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip._

Slouched against the wall, Sherlock tried to ignore the sound of dripping water echoing around him loudly. It had been dripping and dripping and dripping all day, but no matter where he looked, he couldn’t find the source of the noise.

He had already figured out ages ago that this was today’s form of torture intended to break him.

Sherlock had been kidnapped a week ago. Everyday, his captor seemed to come up with a new technique of torture to try and drive Sherlock up the wall. There had been that chair that he was tied to, with blades sticking through the back of it so that if he relaxed he’d get stabbed. Oh, and that one day, they showed him footage of John that they had gotten from somewhere on repeat. He had to watch all day as John was punched and kicked and spit on, and Sherlock had just about lost it.

_Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip._

Sherlock gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut when a wave of hunger washed over him and made his stomach cramp painfully, reminding him that he had only eaten a few pieces of bread and some apple slices all week.

Just enough to keep him alive.

When the gnawing hunger didn’t fade after a while, Sherlock ran his fingers roughly over the skin on his stomach, leaving red streaks on his pale skin instead of helping distract him from the pain. He groaned softly and folded in on himself, wrapping his arms around his folded legs, tucking his head between his knees and his chest. He tried humming classical music softly to himself, but the loudspeaker turned on and a voice said, “No no no, Sherlock, you mustn’t make any noise, remember?” Sherlock flinched and pulled his legs in tighter, trying to hold back the noises building in his throat.

“I think I might just have to punish you for that. Hmmm, what could I possibly do? Oh, I have just the thing! You’ll love it!” The voice said, setting Sherlock on edge. Suddenly, the dripping stopped and all was silent. Sherlock nearly sobbed with relief until it started up again, but with something soft playing in the background. It took him a few seconds to realize what it was, but when he did, he felt himself pale and felt his stomach drop.

It was a recording of John’s voice. That was all. But they made it sound like John was in the building, searching frantically for Sherlock, and tears started spilling out of Sherlock’s eyes.

“John…” Sherlock croaked out, burying his fingers in his hair and pulling, wanting to feel pain somewhere other than his stomach and his heart. The distraction didn’t work. The voice came over the loudspeaker again, and the sound of it made Sherlock tremble in fear. “Tsk tsk tsk, Sherlock, I thought I told you not to say anything! I suppose I could lift that ban, but I’ll have to make something worse for you, you understand.” Seconds later, the recording of John was turned up and seemed to be coming from everywhere around Sherlock all at once.

“John! No, please, don’t do this to me, I need him…” Sherlock sobbed, turning himself to lay with his head against the wall, his hands scrabbling at the tough stone in front of him.

_‘Sherlock? Are you in here somewhere, Sherlock? Fuck, please, answer me, I need to find you!’_

A pause.

_‘Sherlock? Are you in here somewhere, Sherlock? Fuck, please, answer me, I need to find you!’_

_Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip._

_‘Sherlock?’ Drip. ‘Are you in here somewhere, Sherlock?’ Drip. Drip. ‘Fuck, please answer me, I need to find you!’ Drip. Drip. Drip._

Sherlock let out a loud wail, digging his fingernail into his scalp and falling onto the floor in a sideways fetal position, hot tears dripping steadily onto the floor, sobs echoing off the walls around him.

“John, please, John John John John, please,” Sherlock babbled to himself, pushing his palms over his ears to try and block out the sound of John searching for him.

He had been broken, and there was only one person who could put him back together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking the time to read this!! I hope you enjoyed it, and as always, your comments and Kudos give me life


	8. Stab Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was all he could do to stop his hands from trembling.

When John heard Sherlock stumbling uneasily up the stairs to their flat, he immediately knew that something had happened while Sherlock was out.

The heavy breathing and pained groans were his next clue.

Throwing the newspaper he was reading to the side, John scrambled to the door and wrenched it open just as Sherlock went to enter the flat, causing Sherlock to lean too far forward and fall to the ground, swearing in pain. John’s eyes immediately went to Sherlock’s thigh where his dark trousers were stained darker with blood, the slit in the fabric showing a nasty looking stab wound. John swore as well, running to the bathroom to grab his medical kit before dropping to his knees beside Sherlock.

“What the hell happened?” John asked, wasting no time in cutting away Sherlock’s pant leg, throwing it over his shoulder carelessly. “I thought this was supposed to be an easy case with an easy takedown!” He started cleaning the wound with as much care as he could, but Sherlock gasped and winced nonetheless, gripping John’s shoulder roughly with one of his blood stained hands.

“I-” Sherlock gasped, digging his fingernails even deeper into John’s good shoulder. “I miscalculated. I didn’t think he was going to try to put up a fight, and I especially didn’t expect him to- _fuck!_ ” Sherlock hissed as John started to disinfect the wound. He took in a heaving breath, then continued. “I didn’t think he’d bring help with him either. They put up a good fight and one of them even managed to stick me in the leg, as you can see.” John nodded, pulling out a needle and some nylon thread.

“I have to give you stitches, this is fairly deep,” John said, bringing a hand up to Sherlock’s face for a few seconds to softly stroke over his cheekbones. Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. “You know, I really should-”

“No!” Sherlock interrupts, his chest heaving with pain. “I am not going to the hospital and that is that.”

“But Sherlock-”

“No, John, I will not! I’ll be fine after you stitch me up, I’ll just take some paracetamol and get some sleep,” Sherlock argued, staring John in the face, his expression set with determination, his eyes filled with pain.

“Alright, alright,” John said softly, his adrenaline from going into Doctor Mode wearing off. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he refused to cry. He needed to focus on stitching Sherlock up. 

It was all he could do to stop his hands from trembling.

They fell into a heavy kind of silence that was occasionally broken by Sherlock groaning or hissing in a breath, but eventually John finished his stitches up and breathed a sigh of relief before bandaging Sherlock’s leg carefully.

As John stood up to wash his hands and put his kit away, Sherlock slumped fully onto the floor in exhaustion, closing his eyes and letting out a heavy sigh. John grabbed him a paracetamol and a glass of water and propped Sherlock up against himself before handing them to him. Sherlock’s hand shook around the glass of water, but he took the pills and drained the water with little to no difficulty. He set the glass on the floor beside him and climbed fully into John’s lap, burying his face in John’s shoulder.

“Thank you, John,” he said quietly, tears starting to soak into John’s shoulder. John pulled him in closer and held him tight. “Do you think you could carry me to the bedroom? I’m exhausted, and I don’t think I can quite walk yet.” His voice was nasally and rough, and he was starting to tremble in John’s grip.

“Of course I can, love,” John whispered, standing up as carefully as he could with an injured consulting detective in his arms.

Sherlock was asleep before John even made it into the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this! I appreciate each and every one of you, even my ghost readers! But, as always, comments and Kudos are my lifeblood


	9. Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shit. This isn’t good._

Sherlock came to consciousness minutes before John did, and immediately wished that John wouldn’t wake up yet, not until he could find a way out of the situation they were in.

John was tied tightly to a chair with an exorbitant amount of rope, and Sherlock was lying sideways on the cold floor a little ways away, his hands shackled uncomfortably behind him. When he scanned the room and saw the face of a maniacally grinning man lurking in the shadows, his stomach dropped into his feet.

_Shit. This isn’t good._

Sherlock glared at the man as he stepped out of the darkness, inclining his head ever so slightly at Sherlock, his grin becoming even wider somehow. Sherlock, gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain in his shoulders, sat up and spit at the man’s feet while internally begging John not to wake up.

John Watson, of course, is a stubborn bastard of a man and, even in unconsciousness, will not listen to Sherlock Holmes.

He groaned and shook his head as he woke up, but when he realized he could not move any of his limbs, he knew something was wrong and snapped into alertness in a second, scanning the room just as Sherlock had done just a little bit ago. His eyes caught on Sherlock and he growled, trying to free himself from the rope binding him to the chair. When he realized he wouldn’t be escaping anytime soon, his gaze snapped to the other man in the room, narrowing his eyes and baring his teeth.

“Let us go,” John said, venom leaking into his voice almost immediately. The man laughed and walked over, leaning down so that he was face to face with John.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty!” He said, the tone of his voice enough to make John shudder involuntarily.

Sherlock didn’t blame him at all, as he was also revolted by the man in front of him.

“It’s so nice of you to join us! Good thing you didn’t make us wait too long, your detective over there was getting a little restless,” he said, waving at Sherlock with a belittling smile on his face.

Before John could ask him if he was okay, Sherlock asked, “What do you want, Samael?” His tone was biting, which seemed to make Samael even happier, evil laughter spilling forth from his mouth.

“Why, isn’t it obvious, Mr. Consulting Detective?” Samael asked, almost in a tone used to talk to a baby. “I want to make you and your little blogger suffer for what you did!” He yelled, his calm, happy facade breaking for just a few seconds. As if on impulse, he reached out and slapped Sherlock roughly across the face. Sherlock didn’t react, but heard John growl from somewhere behind Samael.

“It’s quite childish of you to not call me by my name, you know,” Sherlock said as if they were just having a regular chat together. Samael giggled manically, his face falling into a dangerous expression just seconds later.

“What, would you rather I call you Sherl? My little ‘Lock, just like the old days?” He asked, his voice dark and bitter, placing a hand on Sherlock’s right shoulder before driving his fist into Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock spluttered and coughed, taking in short gasps of breath. John barks out a curse directed towards Samael.

“Leave him the fuck alone, Samael!” John gritted out, trying with more fervour to wiggle himself free from his bonds. “This isn’t about your fucking past together, let us go!” Samael, glaring over his shoulder at John for just a second, pulled his elbow back and slammed his fist right into Sherlock’s nose. Blood spurted everywhere, and Sherlock could tell from the noises he was making that John was starting to go into a crazed sort of panic.

“It has everything to do with the past and nothing to do with the fact that you just landed my brother in jail,” Samael said, his voice verging on the edge of dangerous and unstable. His fingers dug uncomfortably into Sherlock’s shoulder. He was finding it harder and harder to ignore the pain radiating from his now broken nose, his vision starting to swim a little bit. “That was just my excuse to the world, really. Wouldn’t want to tell them how you broke my heart, eh little ‘Lock?” Sherlock blinked his eyes to focus his vision, and when he glanced up at John, he could see panic on his face, in his taut muscles.

“I didn’t break your heart, you wouldn’t leave me alone so I turned you down, and instead of letting me go you let yourself become obsessed with me. It’s been over fifteen years, Samael, this is your own fault. You should have let me go,” Sherlock said, blood dripping over his lips and into his mouth as he spoke. Samael’s eyes became dark, the smile forming on his lips even darker.

“You shouldn’t have rejected me and then found yourself a little fucking Army doctor to get with,” he bit out in a whisper, grabbing his other shoulder before leaning down to ram his knee into Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock doubled, pressing his forehead to the floor, trying to get his breath back. 

“Stop it!” John said, panic fully seeped into his voice, the legs of the chair sliding around on the ground with sharp scraping sounds. Lifting his head slightly, Sherlock could see tears forming in John’s eyes through his shaky vision, could see his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

“Sorry John,” Sherlock said weakly, still trying to catch his breath. “I didn’t mean to drag you into problems from my past.” Samael, obviously angry about being called a mistake, took in a deep breath and stood up, staring down at the still kneeling Sherlock below him. Sherlock could hear John struggling to get free. 

He knew it was pointless.

Samael grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair tightly and yanked his head back, bearing his teeth in a crazed smile that looked more angry than anything. “I’m not going to go easy on you, little ‘Lock,” he hissed, yanking Sherlock’s hair even harder.

“No, leave him alone!” John yelled, his voice starting to shake with anger and unshed tears. 

His cries went unheard as Samael stood up and pulled his foot back, slamming the hard toe of his shoe into Sherlock’s ribs. John let out another shout and Sherlock cried out in pain, but Samael wasn’t listening, too blinded by his rage to do anything other than pull his foot back and kick with all his might once more at Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock felt bones crack as he let out another wail, feeling tears welling up in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks.

As he fell to the side and cracked his head off the floor, the last thing he heard before falling into unconsciousness was a sharp, painful “No!” tearing itself out of John’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I'm quite proud of this one, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! As always, I really appreciate comments and Kudos, they keep me going! See you all next chapter!


	10. Unconscious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Never again._

Something about the crime scene had felt uneasy to Sherlock. The murder was pretty cut and dry, and Sherlock wrapped it up pretty quickly, but there was still something off. He felt one presence too many, an extra set of eyes roaming around over them all. It was a hard feeling to shake off, but he finally did, thinking that he was just paranoid.

God, how he wished he had listened to his head like always instead of ignoring it.

_Never again._

It had happened too fast and at the time, everything blurred together, but after the incident, Sherlock remembered everything about it. He had been standing with Lestrade, discussing details of the case, when he saw John flinch and frown out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock’s head snapped in John’s direction as the man rubbed at his neck, eyebrows furrowing when he pulled a tiny dart out of the side of his neck.

“Sherl… ock…” John said, swaying unsteadily on his feet, the dart dropping to the ground. Sherlock rushed towards him and managed to catch him before he could fall, cradling John’s head carefully in his lap. The dart was laying just a few inches away, the tip of it coated in a fine layer of John’s blood.

“John,” Sherlock said, a bit of urgency in his voice as he tapped the side of John’s face with his hand, trying to get him to wake up. “John, please, wake up.” He doesn’t, and when all the color seems to drain from John’s face in a second, Sherlock can feel his blood do the exact same thing.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock snaps, not tearing his eyes away from John. “Get an ambulance here immediately!”

“Already on its way!” Lestrade calls out from somewhere behind him. 

Sherlock nods to himself, brushing his fingers over John’s face and pushing his hair back, pressing kisses all over his face, trying to stop the swell of tears he could feel in his eyes. “Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock said between kisses, the pale face of John Watson still held between his hands. “We’ll find out what this is, and who did this to you, and they will pay, and you will wake up, and everything will be right with the world.” John started to shake in his unconscious state and Sherlock pulled him closer to himself, wrapping the parts of John that he could in his long coat, tears dripping onto the shoulder of John’s jumper.

“You’ll be okay, John,” Sherlock said, more of a comfort to himself than anyone else. He held John tighter, sobbing as John started trembling violently in his grip.

He was still sobbing when the ambulance came and forced him to let go of John. He didn’t go without a fight, but eventually Lestrade himself pulled Sherlock off of John and held him back, reassuring the crazed detective.

When they loaded John onto the stretcher, Sherlock turned toward Lestrade, tears streaming down his face. Lestrade pulled him in for a quick hug before leading Sherlock to the ambulance, climbing in beside him.

“Sherlock, I’m sure he’s going to be just fine. They’ll fix him up good as new,” Lestrade said softly, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder tightly.

“I could tell something was wrong,” Sherlock said flatly, tears still streaming steadily down his cheeks, his hands clasping and unclasping in his lap. “I could tell something didn’t feel right, but I ignored it, and this happened. This is all my fault,” he bit out angrily, burying his face in his hands.

All Greg Lestrade could do in that moment was stare as Sherlock wept silently, and hope that John would pull through like he said he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! This one was pretty quick, so it isn't the best, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! Comments and Kudos are my lifeblood


	11. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John is leaving._

Sherlock and John stumbled through the door of their flat together, leaning against one another, panting heavily. Sherlock let John lead him to the sofa, collapsing there in an exhausted heap, careful not to press his bleeding face to the fabric. Mrs. Hudson would kill him if he got blood on any of the furniture, and he had just escaped a tight scrape with death. He would rather not die at the hands of his angry landlady after all the trouble he just went through to not die.

“Alright, budge up,” John said, nudging Sherlock’s knee with his foot, his hands washed and full of medical supplies for Sherlock’s face. Stifling a sigh, Sherlock pulled himself up into something resembling an upright position, tilting his face up so John could reach it easily. John wasted no time in mopping up the extra blood that was slowly dripping down Sherlock’s face and onto his neck, careful to avoid irritating the wound itself.

They had gotten into a knife fight with one too many people that night, and Sherlock came home sporting a nasty cut for it. It started above his left eyebrow and curved down around his eye, cutting over his left cheekbone, ending around the corner of his mouth. The cut hadn’t gone too deep, but his face was still aching with sharp pains, and he was starting to feel a little light-headed.

John threw the blood-soaked gauze away, then pulled out some cotton and doused it in rubbing alcohol, grimacing apologetically at Sherlock. “This’ll hurt ‘Lock, sorry,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s forehead before beginning to disinfect his wound. Sherlock hissed in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut, digging his fingers tightly in the couch cushions, reciting the digits of pi in a feeble attempt to distract himself.

_Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine seven nine three two three eight four six two six four three three eight three two seven nine five zero two eight eight-_

“All done disinfecting, Sherlock,” John said softly, breaking him out of his stupor. “You need stitches, though. Do you need me to numb your face?” Sherlock shook his head no, not trusting himself to open his mouth. John nodded, wasting no time on ripping open the package of nylon thread already threaded through a sharp, curved needle, grabbing it carefully with his needle holder. Starting at Sherlock’s forehead, John carefully inserted the needle into his skin, pulling it out through the wound, then inserting it back through the wound and pulling it through the skin on the other side. Sherlock hissed once more at the pain, but kept his teeth clenched and suffered through it. John carefully tied the knot on the first stitch, cut the excess thread, inspected the stitch carefully, then moved on to the next one, following the exact same procedure.

That was their routine for the next bit of time, Sherlock hissing in breaths on occasion, John slowly and methodically stitching his wound shut. Sherlock didn’t know how long he stayed there, his face stinging, but it was a relief when John finally pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose and said, “All right, the stitching is done, just let me bandage it up for bed, okay?” Sherlock nodded, letting out a sigh of relief, running his fingers through his hair. John, after rewashing his hands and grabbing more gauze, ran his finger softly over the new line of stitches, a sad look in his eyes. 

“Looks like you might be left with a bit of a nasty scar, though.” It was a simple throw away comment, but when Sherlock heard it, his head kicked into gear and threw him into doubt.

_Scar. I’m going to scar. John thinks scars are ugly, doesn’t like them, will he love me anymore if I have a scar on my face? He looked sad, might it be pity for me? Maybe he’s already falling out of love with me. My good luck has run out at last. John is leaving me._

_John is leaving._

All traces of exhaustion gone, Sherlock stands up, fighting back tears, and rushes to the bathroom, throwing the door shut behind him. John, still standing confused in the living room, goes over and presses his hand up against the door. “Sherlock?”

His only answer is the sound of sobs falling through the cracks of Sherlock’s fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I really appreciate all the sweet comments I've been getting recently, you guys are giving me life! Because, as you know, comments and Kudos keep me alive


	12. "Don't Move"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was confused. Were they looking for him? He didn’t think he was that dangerous, but then again, here he was, sitting in an alley, covered in someone else's blood.

Sherlock woke up with a pounding headache, slumped uncomfortably against a brick wall in a filthy alley, not exactly sure how he had gotten there. He tried to remember what had happened before he ended up in the alley, but his mind was hazy and he couldn’t quite grasp the memories. Reaching up to massage his temples, Sherlock paused and squinted at his gloved hands, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion when he realized that there was blood on his hands.

A quick glance tells him that most of him was covered in blood, and none of it was from him. His white shirt was soaked through with it, and so were the thighs of his trousers. He racked his brain to try and remember what the hell he might have done, but his thoughts were interrupted by the screeching of police sirens and the sound of loud footfalls racing towards him.

“He’s over here, hiding in the alley!”

“We’ve got him, move in carefully, and for God’s sake, watch your backs! He’s dangerous!”

“He’s not in the right mind, be prepared for him to lash out!”

Sherlock was confused. Were they looking for him? He didn’t think he was that dangerous, but then again, here he was, sitting in an alley, covered in someone else's blood. His head was pounding, and the faintly flashing lights were making it worse, so he just shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, not stopping to think about how disgusting it probably was.

“You all stay back here,” he heard a familiar voice say. “He knows me, he’ll be least likely to attack me if he’s still in a bad mental state.” Sherlock furrows his eyebrows, groaning softly to himself, the pain in his head getting slowly worse.

_Lestrade? Why in the world would Lestrade think that I want to hurt him?_

“I’ll go with you,” another voice said. John. “Even though he’s dangerous right now, well, I’d like to make sure he’s okay.” Sherlock didn’t hear Lestrade argue, and soon, he could hear two people walking steadily towards him.

“Sherlock? Where are you, we know you’re here somewhere!” Sherlock hummed just loud enough for them to hear, blinking his eyes open and squinting towards where he heard their voices. They came into his field of vision a few seconds later, and despite the fact they were blurry, he felt some sense of relief to see them.

“John, Lestrade,” Sherlock said softly, his throat raw and scratchy as if he hadn’t used it in weeks. “What happened?” He moved his hands beside his body and tried to push himself off the ground, put Lestrade whipped out his gun and trained it on Sherlock, his jaw clenching tightly. John did the same, and Sherlock could see a slight tremble in his hands.

“Don’t move, Sherlock,” Lestrade gritted out, stepping slightly closer to Sherlock. As they got closer, Sherlock could see them clearer than before. It was obvious that Lestrade was hesitant to be pointing a gun at him, and John had unshed tears shining in his eyes. Sherlock didn’t listen to Lestrade and moved to push himself up again, when Greg shouted, “Don’t fucking move, Sherlock Holmes!”

“John, why are you afraid of me?” Sherlock said softly, slumping back against the wall, unable to filter his thoughts. It was true, though, and he could tell even in his exhausted, dehydrated state. Usually John would rush to him, ask him if he was okay, admonish him for being such an idiot.

Not this time. John was pointing a gun at him at Lestrade’s side, his hands shaking, his chest heaving with emotion.

“I-” Sherlock could tell John was going to lie to him, then decided against it, saying, “You disappeared about a week ago without a trace, Sherlock. Since then, people have been dying all over the place, and the eyewitnesses all mentioned seeing someone that looks like you. Your DNA is all over the scenes. You’re in an alley, covered in blood, am I not supposed to fear you?” John’s voice shook heavily, and tears started racing steadily down his cheeks, his gun still trained on Sherlock.

_I need to help John, I need to comfort him. It’s what he would do for me._

Gathering all his will, Sherlock tried once more to push himself off the ground, partially succeeding this time, standing up halfway before leaning against the wall for support, breathing deeply and trying to ignore the swimming in his head. “Sherlock, I told you not to move! Don’t make this harder for us,” Lestrade begged, tightening his grip on his gun.

“I have to comfort John. I have to help him. He needs to understand I didn’t do anything wrong,” Sherlock mumbled, pushing himself up into an upright position, still panting heavily.

“Stop fucking moving, Sherlock, or I’ll shoot you!” Locking eyes with John, Sherlock saw him flinch at what Lestrade said. Pushing himself off the wall, the swimming in his head becomes too much, and Sherlock sees darkness overtake his vision.

“I… John, everything will be okay,” Sherlock slurred out before the darkness claimed him completely, and he fell.

He thought, faintly, that he could subconsciously feel someone catch him and hold him close before he could hit the cold, harsh ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! If you were worried about it, Sherlock didn't actually kill anybody. But, that's a story for another time! Comments and Kudos give me life, and if y'all could drop some for me, I'd love you eternally.


	13. Adrenaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Just the two of us, against the rest of the world._

John and Sherlock sprinted together through a thick, twisting forest, their hands gripping onto each other for dear life as their legs pumped endlessly, pushing them forward. They could hear shouting and the rustling of plants behind them, but they only ran faster, grinning at each other before both taking a sharp right turn, as if they could read the others mind.

The shouting behind them seemed to grow quieter, and John and Sherlock laughed breathlessly together, not stopping their quick pace despite the illusion of safety.

_Just the two of us, against the rest of the world._

It wasn’t a far leap to figure out how they had been led up to this moment, being chased by criminals through a dense forest, the criminals shouting bloody murder at them. Sherlock and John had showed up at their secret laboratory, burned it to the ground, and started running before they had the chance to be captured. The men were persistent, and had chased the men deep into the woods where the foliage was thick and gnarled tree roots stuck up from the ground.

So, a regular Tuesday afternoon for them both.

It was exhilarating, and John relished the slight burn in his lungs and his legs, enjoying the feel of Sherlock’s fingers entwined in his, the detective panting just as heavily as John, his smile just as big, his eyes just as bright.

That is, until Sherlock’s eyes widened in fear and he suddenly went down, a loud ‘snap!’ accompanying his fall, followed closely by a gasp and a loudly shouted, “Fuck!” John skidded to a halt, his mind suddenly kicking into overdrive, running through all of the things that might have just happened to Sherlock. Kneeling down, John assessed Sherlock, his heart beating loudly in his ears, his blood rushing quickly through his veins.

“Shit, John,” Sherlock hissed out, clenching his thigh tightly in both hands. “I think I broke something in my leg.” John looked down to Sherlock’s leg, twisted slightly the wrong way, his foot still stuck under the root that must have tripped him. Trying not to cause Sherlock too much pain, John felt around on his shin and knee, surveying the damage. Sherlock whimpered and swore under his breath at every press of John’s hands.

“You have a broken knee, and maybe even a broken shin. You can’t run like this,” John said, adrenaline starting to run rampant through his body.

This wasn’t the kind of adrenaline he needed, the kind he craved, the kind that Sherlock gave to him. This was pure terror injected into his veins that made him go and go and go and go and never stop, making his heart race and pound, the sound of rushing blood the only thing he could hear.

“John,” Sherlock said, tears starting to gather in his eyes from the pain, his soft touch knocking John out of his head. “You need to go on without me. Leave me here, and you’ll be safe.” John’s hands started shaking as they heard the shouting once more behind them. Going against all of the alarms blaring in his head telling him to run away or get ready to fight, John turned to where Sherlock’s foot was stuck and, quickly and efficiently, wrenched his foot out of where it had gotten stuck, earning a yelp and a sob from Sherlock.

John could barely hear it over his adrenaline-fueled thought.

“We are getting out of here together, or we aren’t getting out at all,” John gritted out, picking Sherlock up carefully, one arm around his shoulders and one under his knees. He threw himself into a sprint, the sound of rushing blood almost loud enough to drown out the pained noises coming from Sherlock.

John pushed and pushed and pushed himself, going faster and faster, ignoring his screaming arms and legs, paying no mind to his tortured lungs, only listening to the screaming voice inside of him telling him to get them both to safety. 

John barely noticed when Sherlock slipped out of consciousness, the pain too much for him. All he knew was the bone-deep fear, and the adrenaline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! We're nearly halfway through the month, isn't that crazy? Anyways, as always, leave a comment and a Kudos and I will love you for ever and ever!


	14. Tear-stained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For John._

John was lounging comfortably in his living room, his feet propped up in front of the fire, a hot cup of tea resting at his elbow on the side table. He was reading the newspaper when Sherlock walked behind him, breezing behind his chair in near-silence. John almost hadn’t heard him wouldn’t have if it weren’t for the sound of something smacking into their kitchen table.

“Sherlock?” John said, turning in his chair to look at his flatmate. His expression matched one of a deer caught in headlights, his face pale, his eyes rimmed in red, a suitcase loosely from his right hand. “Where are you going?” John asked curiously. It was rare for Sherlock to go anywhere without him, and even rarer that he hadn’t mentioned a case at all.

His red-rimmed eyes were sending warning signals through his mind, and when Sherlock took a deep breath, his lip trembling ever so slightly, they sounded even louder.

“Away, John. I’m going away,” Sherlock said, an obvious tremble to his voice, his grip on the suitcase handle tightening. John’s eyebrows furrowed, pushing himself roughly out of his chair, standing in front of Sherlock seconds later.

“What do you mean you’re ‘going away’?” John asked. “Where are you going? Do you need me?” Sherlock shook his head and looked away from John as if he was incapable of meeting John’s eyes.

“I… you can’t come with me John,” Sherlock said quietly, seemingly collapsing in on himself slightly. “You mustn’t. He’ll hurt you,” he ended in a haunted whisper, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. John furrowed his eyebrows further and took a step closer to Sherlock, trying not to show the hurt he felt when Sherlock took a step back away from him, looking away in shame.

“Why can’t I come with you?” John said, anger starting to build steadily in his chest. He waited for a few seconds, and when Sherlock didn’t answer, he snapped. “Why the fuck can’t I come with you? Who the hell is going to hurt me? What’s going on, Sherlock?” Sherlock’s face crumpled in an instant, tears streaming down his face, his bottom lip quivering.

“I can’t tell you John,” Sherlock said, his body starting to tremble. “He’ll know, they’ll both know, and they’ll kill you in front of me if I tell you.” John’s heart picked up pace in his chest, his head clouding with emotion. He longed to pull the crying detective close to him, to bury his face in his chest and stroke his heaving back, but when John reached for Sherlock, he stepped back again, his eyes shining with the pain it caused him. “I need to go now,” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper, his tear-stained face contorted in grief and fear. “Please don’t follow me. It’s for your own safety. I’m begging you John, please listen.” 

With that, he took one more small look at John before shamefully walking out of their flat, his head bowed low, his breathing short and choppy.

John just watched him go, unable to move, to think, to breathe. Falling to his knees, John let out a long, ragged yell, cursing the mysterious people who were taking his detective away from him. When he brought his hands up to rub them roughly over his face, they came away wet, tears springing from his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he had been crying.

Faintly, he realized that he and Sherlock would have matching tear-stained faces.

.

“Ah, finally! I thought you weren’t going to come out and kill him in the process!” The words were infused with fake cheer, but Sherlock saw them for what they were, oozing, bubbling, back sludge pouring from the Irishman's mouth.

“Call him off,” Sherlock said flatly, his voice still nasally, his face still red. The demon in front of him made a tsk-ing sound, wiggling his finger at Sherlock.

“Now, is that any way to play this little game of ours?” He said, his voice lilting and threatening. Sherlock bared his teeth and threw his suitcase on the ground.

“Call. Moran. Off.” He said, crowding into Moriarty’s space, his hands clenched into fists. Moriarty giggled, patted Sherlock on the face, and pulled out his phone, dialling quickly before holding the phone up to his ear, winking at Sherlock in the process.

Sherlock felt a wave of revulsion roll through him.

“Yes, hello Sebby. You can stop watching the little pet now, we have what we want,” Moriarty said, hanging up the phone and dropping it into his pocket. “There we go. Your little doctor is safe and sound. And you, my dear, have just made the best decision of your life. Let’s play a game, eh?” He said with a smile. Sherlock gritted his teeth, threw his suitcase into the car beside them, and got in himself, allowing Moriarty to kidnap him to keep John safe.

_For John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! This one isn't my favorite thing in the whole world, but I hope all of you enjoyed it! Thank you for being your awesome selves!


	15. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John ran his hands softly over the scars on his lovers back, filled with hate for the dead men that put them there.

John hummed softly to himself while bustling around the kitchen, making a full breakfast for himself and Sherlock. Sherlock had been struck with fever and hadn’t been feeling well at all for the past few days, but John had a feeling that once he woke up, he was going to be famished. He placed the breakfast along with a fresh pot of tea on a tray and took it to Sherlock’s bedroom, smiling softly to himself.

_Nothing better than a nice breakfast in bed after being sick for a bit._

He pushed the door open silently with his hip, his eyes skimming quickly over Sherlock before moving to place the tray on his desk. He froze, however, and looked back over to Sherlock squinting in confusion.

Sherlock had taken his shirt off since the last time John was in the room, and he was lying on his stomach, his back on display.

And there, on his skin, were raised lines of pale flesh, criss-crossing over his back, up his shoulders, and slightly around his sides.

John’s eyes widened in horror as he dropped the tray of breakfast, barely registering the clattering and the shattering of the teapot that spilled hot tea all over the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock sat bolt upright out of bed, his eyes scanning the room in panic. “What happened, John? Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, his sleepy voice tinged with concern. When he noticed John’s unblinking stare, his clenched fists, his clenched jaw, he seemed to remember that his back was bare and John could see it. Could see the scars littering its surface. He quickly scrambled to a sitting position against the headboard of their bed, covering his chest with the blanket, effectively hiding his back from view once more. “John, I-”

“Where did those come from?” John said, an obvious tremor in his voice as he tried to hold back an outburst of emotion. Sherlock’s face drained of color and he pulled the blanket tighter to his chest.

“I- John, it isn’t- I don’t- it really isn’t that important anymore-” Sherlock mumbled, cut off roughly by John.

“Like hell it’s not important! Your back is littered with scars! I’ve been in the army, those look like scars from- from…” John choked on the last word, unable to finish his sentence. 

Sherlock finished it for him.

“Torture,” he said quietly, looking away from John, clenching his fingers tightly around the blanket. “While I was… away, I got caught in Serbia. They wanted information. I didn’t want to give it to them. They kept me there for at least a month, nearly starving me to the point of death. Mycroft was there, but he didn’t help me escape until he knew it was completely safe.”

John felt the anger bubbling up under his skin, racing through his veins.

“Mycroft was there? The whole bloody time? He was there and he didn’t save you from all of that torture?” He was livid, and Sherlock nodded meekly at him. “I’m going to kill that bastard,” John seethed. Sherlock shook his head, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“Mycroft did the right thing, John. He saved both of us by waiting,” Sherlock said softly, and John walked over the bed, slumping down on it in front of Sherlock. Running a hand softly over John’s face, Sherlock leans in and presses a kiss to both of John’s eyelids. John’s eyes start running, and when he looks up at Sherlock, tears are streaming from the corners of his eyes.

“Are they dead? The men that did this to you?” John asked, his voice full of deadly rage. Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose and pulled him up into a hug.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispered soothingly. “Mycroft and I made sure of it.” John ran his hands softly over the scars on his lovers back, filled with hate for the dead men that put them there.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I really like writing this one, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it! Comments and Kudos are my lifeblood, so if you're able to lend me a few, I'd be forever greatful.


	16. Pinned Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Where’s Sherlock? Where is he? I need him!_

John awoke slowly, blinking his eyes groggily, his vision blurry and unsteady. His head was pounding, and the bright lights shining down on him didn’t help at all. He whined in pain and tried to bring his hands up to block the torturous light from his vision, but found that he couldn’t move his arms. Squinting his eyes shut, trying to think through the thick fog in his head, he realized he could feel multiple sets of hands pressing into his arms, effectively trapping him against the surface he was laying on. They must have been the dark smudges he saw at the edges of his vision.

“Sherlock?” John said, his throat scratching painfully at the effort of speaking. He winced, but when he heard the scrape of a chair in the room, he forced his eyes open, his cloudy vision landing on a ruffled Sherlock. Sherlock scrambled over to him, pushing aside what must have been one of the people holding him down, cupping John’s face carefully.

“Thank God you’re awake John, I thought I had lost you,” Sherlock sobbed, pressing his fingers gently into the sides of John’s head, seemingly trying to massage away John’s headache and blurry vision.

“What happened?” It still felt like John’s throat and head were stuffed with cotton, but he wanted answers. He didn’t remember anything up till this point, and he needed to be filled in on why he was dizzy and pinned down to a table.

“You were-”

“Sherlock. I told you, we can’t tell him,” a sharp voice said, effectively cutting Sherlock off. John was having trouble thinking, but even he could tell it was Mycroft by the way that Sherlock snarled at the man that John couldn’t see.

“He deserves to know.”

“I don’t care what he deserves, dear brother, telling him will not help him heal. It will not help us control the situation,” Mycroft snapped. “My men know how to handle this, they’ve dealt with the effects of it before. John is in good hands, he is as safe as he can be, so please leave this room! You are making it very difficult for my men to work with all your pacing and incessant mumbling and fretting!” Mycroft’s voice started sounding farther and farther away, but John could tell that he was at the end of his rope, stress fraying the edges of his nerve.

“Sherlock…” John said, his skin starting to feel hot and prickly, his fingers tingling painfully. The fingers pressing into his skin suddenly felt unbearable, and John started to writhe around on the table, trying to twist free of the hot press of hands all over his arms and legs. “Sherlock, wh-what’s happening to me?” John can feel the fear in his own voice.

“He’s going into another attack! All hands on deck, prepare the sedative just in case we need it!” It was an unfamiliar voice, and John started twisting in their grasps even harder, panicking.

_Where’s Sherlock? Where is he? I need him!_

“Mycroft, let me comfort him, please!” Sherlock said, his voice shaking. John cracked his eyes open against the searing pain and was met with the sight of Sherlock being dragged away by men in suits. He fought them hard, but there were more of them than him, and they slowly worked to remove him from the room.

“I will not have you stay in this room a second longer, Sherlock Holmes, not until he’s done having these attacks!” John heard Mycroft bark just before Sherlock was dragged from John’s sight. John struggled even harder, but his limbs were starting to feel heavy and limp.

“Don’t worry, John,” he heard Mycroft say as his eyes shut, unable to stay open any longer. “You’ll be back to yourself in no time.”

John went under as the burning seemed to consume him completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Comments and Kudos are appreciated


	17. "Stay with me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John, please don’t leave._

Short, calloused fingers nimbly wrapped a bandage around Sherlock’s forearm with a softness that Sherlock could never get tired of, and a beat later, John asked, “How does that feel?” Sherlock swallowed hard, moving his arm back and forth, testing the bandage.

“It’s good,” Sherlock said, licking his lips, trying to ignore the pain burning through his arm at the movement.

It had only been a graze, but a bullet wound is a bullet wound and they all hurt like hell.

“Are you sure?” John asked, looking at Sherlock with furrowed brows. “Do you want me to get you some paracetamol? It might help a bit with the pain.” Sherlock opened his mouth to politely refuse the offer, but when his shoulder throbbed painfully, he snapped his mouth shut and nodded, offering John a wobbly smile.

“Here you go,” John said after a minute or so, handing Sherlock a glass and two pills, watching as he popped them into his mouth and washed them down with the water. John, smiling as if pleased, placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee and squeezed it, seemingly to give comfort to Sherlock.

All it did was loosen Sherlock’s hold on his tongue.

“John, I…” He said, trailing off, not meeting John’s eyes. “Stay with me.” He looked up as he said it, almost afraid of what he was going to see there. He mentally scolded himself for asking.

He expected to be judged, for John to make excuses as to why he had to leave.

_I have a pregnant wife at home, Sherlock. I can’t stay._

_I’ve been through worse by myself. You’ll be just fine._

_Oh, suck it up, it’s just a graze. Try getting a bullet right through the shoulder._

Instead, John’s face held only kindness and understanding, along with something else that Sherlock couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Of course I’ll stay with you, Sherlock. Is there anything in particular that you need?” John asked, grabbing Sherlock’s thin violinist hands and holding them between his sturdy doctor hands. Sherlock opened his mouth and snapped it back shut again, not sure what he should say. He had never thought he’d actually ask the question, let alone get this far with anything.

“I… I don’t know, John. I just don’t want to be alone,” Sherlock mumbled, looking down at his hands encased in John’s, a familiar melancholy feeling rising in his throat. John hummed in understanding and squeezed Sherlock’s hands even tighter.

“I have an idea,” John said, putting a pillow down on his lap, tugging Sherlock closer to himself. “Would you like to lay your head on my lap? I can play with your hair if you’d like. Sherlock nodded and laid down, his head resting on the pillow covering John’s legs.

At the first stroke of John’s hands through his hair, Sherlock feels like he could sob. All of the lonely feelings that had been building up for months, living by himself, rarely seeing John, not having many other friends to talk to, he had gotten used to being lonely.

He had certainly grown used to being touched starved. This was like a gift from the highest power out there.

What made it even worse was that John was going to go back to Mary eventually. He had to. She was his pregnant wife, he couldn’t just leave her alone like that.

Sherlock curled in on himself, clenching his fists in the pillow as tears started to spill from his eyes. John kept stroking his hair as if nothing strange was happening, and Sherlock buried his head in the pillow, trying to remember the sensation of John’s fingers in his hair, as it was probably the first and last time he was ever going to feel it.

_John, please don’t leave. Stay with me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! This one was a quick one, and it isn't my favorite, but I hope you guys don't mind!


	18. Muffled Screams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere, faintly, he can hear someone's muffled screams and whimpers.
> 
> Maybe they’re his.

Restlessly pacing around Baker Street and worrying his bottom lip with his thumb, Sherlock’s eyebrows were furrowed together and had been furrowed for the past ten minutes as he tried to puzzle out the case he had been working on for the past three days. Sleep had eluded him for the previous 72 hours, and it didn’t seem to be coming any easier that night. Dark was smudged under his eyes, the fingers on his free hand were flitting around him anxiously, fluttering through the sky and drumming on his thighs, and he was a little unsteady on his feet. Still, he paced, unable to calm his mind until the case was finished.

“How… how did they do it?” Sherlock muttered to himself, his thumb still rubbing at his bottom lip.

He didn’t notice when the strange man entered his flat, and he certainly didn’t notice that he was being sneaked up on until said strange man grabbed him from behind and pressed a hand over his mouth, dragging him backwards.

Sherlock immediately began to struggle against his attacker, jerking his shoulders from side to side, trying to kick the man in the shins. However, Sherlock was sleep deprived and his muscles were weaker than normal, and he was overpowered by the stranger easily. Trying to take in a deep breath so he could shout, scream, something, but his attacker tightened his arm uncomfortably over Sherlock’s chest, restricting him from taking in a lungful of air.

“Please, John! Help!” Sherlock said, his voice muffled and slurred from the gloved fingers covering his mouth.

He then remembered that John and Mrs. Hudson were not home. Hadn’t been for the past three days. Mycroft had whisked them away to God knows where when the case started, deeming it too unsafe for them. John had thrown a fit, of course, but with one look from Sherlock he backed down and went with Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock was starting to wish that he hadn’t been so adamant about John leaving with Mrs. Hudson.

“If you ever want to see the people you love again, Mister Sherlock Holmes, I advise you to listen to me when I tell you that you need to stay quiet,” a gruff voice said in Sherlock’s ear as the man dragged him backwards and down the seventeen steps from Baker Street. Sherlock struggled even harder, trying to speak through the man’s fingers.

“Someone, help me please!” His words came out garbled again, and the man that was holding him growled angrily, releasing his mouth for a fraction of a second before shoving a ball of fabric in Sherlock’s mouth to gag him.

Sherlock screamed and screamed, but his voice was muffled and nobody heard. He was almost relieved when the man dragged him to a waiting car and hit him over the head with a gun, knocking him out cold.

.

_Hot. Cold. Bright lights._

Sherlock could feel the fabric still shoved in his mouth. There was duct tape covering it, and his hands were tied to his sides, his feet tied to the table.

His mind is hazy, but there are snippets of conversation dripping through the cotton and into his mind.

_“... should we do? No, we can’t… him! … Mycroft Holmes, for God’s sake! He’ll… our heads, we can’t hide…”_

_“You’re… Mycroft here? What about that… huh? If he finds… we’re done for!”_

_“We… just drop him off… Greg Lestrade… watching! We’ve really… haven’t we?”_

Somewhere, faintly, he can hear someone's muffled screams and whimpers.

Maybe they’re his.

.

“Hell, he’s in here, Greg!” A frantic voice says, waking Sherlock up from unconsciousness. He suddenly feels frantic fingers crawling over his face, and a quickly-muttered apology before the duct tape on his mouth is roughly ripped off and the fabric is taken out of his mouth. Sherlock coughed and worked his jaw, still feeling hot and cold at the same time, the lights still too bright.

“Christ Sherlock, are you alright?” John asked worriedly. Sherlock groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, his muscles too weak to sit up and bury his face into John’s neck. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now, just rest.” He felt a soft kiss on his temple as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! I hope you enjoyed this one, and as always, I appreciate comments and Kudos!


	19. Asphyxiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His head was swimming, his vision becoming blurry and unfocused.

Running through long and twisted hallways in an abandoned storage building, John’s head whipped from side to side, scanning his surroundings frantically. He could hear a man chasing him, but he couldn’t leave without Sherlock, and he was currently nowhere to be found.

“Where in God’s name are you, Sherlock?” John gritted out, pushing himself even faster, watching over his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of the man that was running after him. John couldn’t figure out the floor plan of the storage building for the life of him, he felt like he had just been running in circles for the past ten minutes, always on the lookout for a curly head of hair.

He yelped in surprise when he ran into another body, crashing to the ground from the force of the impact.

“Ah, finally, I’ve been given the great honor of meeting Doctor Watson himself!” The giant burly man said, cracking his knuckles and looming over John menacingly. “I have been waiting for a very long time for this, I have.” John gritted his teeth and pushed himself into a standing position, getting ready to fight the man in front of him.

“What do you want with me?” John asked, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his feet sliding into a stable stance. The man grinned, an evil, cracking thing, and walked ever so slightly closer to John, his eyes widening.

“Why, Dr. Watson, I just want to make your acquaintance, is all,” the man says bitterly, and suddenly there’s a large fist swinging towards his nose. John ducks just in time and throws a punch of his own, landing it against the man’s right cheek. One of the man’s teeth must have broken, for he spits a wad of blood out of his mouth and grins ever wider at John, still creeping closer and closer.

“Stay the hell away from me,” John growled out. That would be enough to send lesser men running, but the man in front of John only laughed and inched closer, obviously enjoying his little game with what he perceived as his prey.

“You know, I could stay away from you, but that wouldn’t be very fun, would it? Anyways, you couldn’t get me to run away from you even if you tried,” the man sneered, blood and saliva dripping from the front of his mouth. John gritted his teeth before opening his mouth, but before he could get any words out the man was slamming him against the wall, one of his hands closing tightly over John’s throat.

John’s hands scrabbled uselessly at the hand on his neck, trying and failing to pull it off of him. He could feel the crushing weight on his windpipe, could already feel his lungs starting to resist at the lack of oxygen.

“I’ve always wanted to watch someone die of asphyxiation… and now that I’m the cause of it, it’s even better,” the man whispered, his eyes wide. He pushed John against the wall with even more force, a manic giggle spilling out of his mouth. John could feel the blood rushing in his face, could feel the loss of oxygen starting to get to him. The force on his throat was causing pain that was verging on unbearable, and though he tried to command his hands to get this man off of him, his muscles were no longer listening to him.

His head was swimming, his vision becoming blurry and unfocused.

The pressure in his lungs was building, the panic in his brain increasing in a similar amount.

The giggling from the man in front of him turned into full-blown laughter, biting and cutting, too manic to ever be from a sane person’s mouth.

“Stop it!” John faintly heard someone say. He couldn’t tell who, couldn’t tell what direction it was from.

All he knew was that a few moments later, the pressure on his neck was released, and he was falling, falling, falling…

“John!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for reading!! I'd like to say thank you for all of the nice comments I've been getting recently, y'all have been keeping me going and I really appreciate you for that!! Comments and Kudos give me life, so if you drop some down there for me, I'll love you forever <3


	20. Trembling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My best is no longer good enough.”

“Sherlock,” John said, his annoyance obvious in his voice, “will you please stop all this bloody pacing? You’re making me exhausted just watching you.” Sherlock hadn’t seemed to hear John, still quietly muttering to himself, waving his hands around his head frantically while pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

“Is it twins? No, no, it’s never twins, I should know, I said it and I’m nearly always correct about these things. But he couldn’t have been in two places at once, could he?” Sherlock mumbled quietly under his breath, his eyes shut tightly, hands still moving about carelessly around his head. “A doppleganger? No, that’s not very likely, now is it? Maybe-”

“Sherlock Holmes!” John snapped, his hand clenching and unclenching in his lap. Sherlock jumped and looked at John with widened eyes, as he had not been expecting John to shout him out of his mind palace. John, staring at the bags under Sherlock’s eyes, sighed and stood up, reaching a hand out towards Sherlock. “You’ve been pacing endlessly for nearly the entire day, and you haven’t slept in nearly four days. I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything more than a piece of toast during that time, and don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t been drinking any of the tea I make for you either,” John said softly, closing his hand gently around Sherlock’s forearm. Sherlock looks away from John almost guiltily, staring at the ground, not trying to wrench his arm from John’s careful grip. “Hey, is everything alright?”

A pause. Then a minute shake of Sherlock’s head as he sighed and buried his face into John’s chest, his whole body deflating. John gathered up his detective lovingly into his arms and pressed a soft kiss to his hair, swaying them back and forth slightly. “Is this about the little girl?” After another short pause, Sherlock nodded again, wrapping his arms tightly around John’s back. “Oh, love,” John said quietly, burying his nose in Sherlock’s hair.

“She’s in danger, John,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled slightly by John’s chest. “She’s in danger, and here I am, struggling my way through this case because I can’t seem to think. I’m exhausted, my muscles want to give up but I can’t seem to stop moving, stop thinking, stop worrying. I’m hungry, but everytime I try to eat I feel so nauseous that it’s better if I just ignore the hunger. I’m-” his voice started wavering and he pulled himself impossibly closer to John, his body starting to tremble. “I’m a mess. A failure,” he whispers, nearly too quiet to be heard.

John presses another kiss to Sherlock’s head, tightening his arms around his trembling body. He knew it was from the overwhelming amount of emotion Sherlock was feeling as much as it was from the muscle fatigue, the lack of sleep, the low blood sugar.

“You aren’t a mess and you are definitely not a failure, ‘Lock,” John said, rubbing his hands comfortingly over Sherlock’s back. “You’re doing everything you can, and you’re working yourself to exhaustion just to do that. It’s a tough case, and it’s been hard on you, especially because… well, I know how cases with children tend to distress you more than others. You’re doing your best, have been doing your best for the past few days. Don’t you think it’s time to take a break?” John could feel Sherlock shake his head against his chest.

“My best is no longer good enough.”

The words hung heavy in the air for a few seconds, and John’s heart ached for the exhausted, shaking man in his arms. “Don’t say that, love. Don’t even think it, because it isn’t true, never has been, never will,” John said fiercely, his voice still a near-whisper. “You’re doing more than anyone else, and we could never thank you enough for that.” When Sherlock didn’t answer after a little bit, John asked, “Hey, did you hear me ‘Lock?” He nodded slowly, a violent tremble making its way through his body. “Do you believe me?” A pause, then Sherlock shook his head no, his shoulders starting to shake with silent sobs along with the tremors already running through his abused muscles.

John only held him closer, wishing he had a way to end the suffering of his exhausted, overworked detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoy this chapter, I had a blast with it!! Comments and Kudos give me life <3


	21. Laced Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’ll all be okay. Everything will be alright._

Laughing loudly, John slapped the counter in front of him, narrowly missing his pint, too drunk to care that he nearly spilled it everywhere. He, Lestrade, and Sherlock had gone out to a bar that night, and John and Lestrade were telling bawdy jokes and snickering to themselves, taking long swigs of beer every now and again. Sherlock sat with them, smirking everytime John said something funny, but mostly stayed out of the conversation, taking small sips of whatever beverage he had in front of him.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the bartender push a drink in Sherlock’s direction before winking at him and gliding away, leaving Sherlock, John, and Lestrade to stare at the drink.

“John, I didn’t order this,” Sherlock said, his eyebrows furrowing tightly over his eyes. John let out a little laugh, patting Sherlock on the shoulder.

“I think that's the point, Sherlock,” John said, gesturing towards the drink with his pint. “I think someone here’s trying to flirt with you.” Lestrade hummed his agreement, sipping his drink with a twinkle in his eye. Sherlock slumped down and pushed the drink slightly away from him, his bottom lip jutting out into a pout that John found quite adorable.

“I do not wish to be flirted with,” he grumbled, crossing his arms in front of his chest, glaring at the drink. John laughed, louder this time, and leaned over to bump his shoulder against Sherlock’s.

“C’mon ‘Lock, it happens to us all sometimes. Might as well drink it, eh? No use wasting free alcohol,” John said, taking another swig out of his pint. Sherlock’s nose scrunched up as he took a small sip from his own drink, still staring at the other drink with distaste.

“If I drink it, they’ll think I’m accepting whatever it is they’re implying. I don’t want to go home with anyone tonight except for you, John, and I certainly don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. People can be so stupid sometimes,” Sherlock said, still grumbling and pouting. John smirked and turned towards Sherlock, setting his drink down.

“Well, let's fix that, shall we?” John asked, all the warning he gave Sherlock before he was pulling the man in by the shirt collar, slotting their lips together just so, staking his claim over his detective. John could tell, without looking, that Sherlock’s eyes were wide open in surprise, not used to public displays of affection.

“Christ,” Lestrade said as John pulled away with a satisfied grin on his face, “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to seeing that. Bloody hell.” John could hear the smile in his voice, though, and reached out to shove him good-naturedly, earning a chuckle from Greg.

“Oh shut up, you’re happy for us,” John said, getting a snort out of Lestrade as the man brought his pint up to his lips. Turning back to Sherlock, John smiled to himself when he saw Sherlock inspecting the mystery drink once more, sniffing at it carefully. “What are you doing, ‘Lock?” John asked, leaning closer to him, enjoying the light blush on his cheeks that lingered from their quick kiss.

“I’m trying to determine if it’s a drink I’d enjoy.”

“You know a really good way to find that out? Take a sip of it.”

Sherlock sent a withering glare towards John, but John only laughed again, leaning in even further to press a quick kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “Go ahead and try it, what could go wrong?”

As it turns out, a lot of things could go very wrong in a very short period of time. John would come to regret the fact that he said this. 

He would come to regret the fact that he was the one that told Sherlock to drink it.

Sherlock picked up the drink and sniffed at it once more before bringing the edge of the glass up to his lips, taking a small sip of whatever was in the glass. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he pulls the drink away from his face before bringing it back in slowly to take another, deeper swing of it.

“It’s… good,” he said, sending John and Lestrade into a fit of happy laughter.

“That’s the spirit!” John said, leaning in to press a sloppy kiss to Sherlock’s neck, causing the man to laugh brightly.

A few minutes later, Sherlock is quiet. A little too quiet, but John barely notices, too busy telling a very funny story to Lestrade, his brain muddled by alcohol.

“John?” Sherlock said, touching John gently on the arm. “I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be back in a few.” John reached up to squeeze Sherlock’s hand and smiled at him. At the time, John hadn’t noticed, but thinking back on it, he was angry that he didn’t see the signs: the pale face, the slight sway, his heavy eyelids.

He barely noticed when one of the bartenders shouted, “Hey Jackson, cover for me, will you? I’ve gotta head to the loo!”

He did notice, however, when Sherlock wasn’t back in five minutes. Six. Seven.

“Greg, I’m going to go look for Sherlock, I’m a little bit worried about him,” John said, not waiting for a reply before pushing himself through the crowd and into the bathroom. 

He wasn’t there.

Leaving the bathroom, he scanned the building, catching no sign of Sherlock.

When he heard a loud commotion in the alley, he was there in seconds, bursting out the door and into the cold. As soon as he was out there, his vision seemed to turn red.

“You’re coming with me,” the bartender growled, quite obviously no longer behind the bar serving drinks. Sherlock, who was limp and woozy, shook his head no, his nose crinkled, his face scrunched.

“No thank you,” Sherlock slurred, holding himself up against the wall. “I don’t want to, and John doesn’t want me to either. I don’t want to upset him, I love him.” The man growled and darted out to grab Sherlock, his hand closing roughly around Sherlock’s wrist.

John couldn’t hold himself back; he didn’t care that Greg was standing behind him, he pulled his elbow back and drove it into the man’s face, delighting in the sickening crack under his knuckles. Sherlock, still very unbalanced, swayed and fell into John’s arms, his breathing and heart rate delayed. John tried his best to ignore Sherlock’s wrist and the bruise forming around it.

“John, I’m very very very very very sorry, I seem to have been drugg’d,” he said, his voice even more slurred than before. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, I pr’mise. I’d never d’ that t’ you. Don’t leave me, okay?” John hugged Sherlock tight to hide the tears forming in his eyes.

“Someone call an ambulance, I think he’s been drugged with Rohypnol, it can be fatal if he doesn’t get medical attention as soon as possible!” John shouted, a frantic edge to his voice. Sobs started breaking out of his chest, and he felt Sherlock’s fingers playing in the hair on the back of his neck.

“Don’t cry Jawn, it’ll all be okay,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear, his breath slowing down and becoming irregular, his chest jerking slightly against John’s.

_It’ll all be okay. Everything will be alright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed this, and if you could leave some comments and Kudos down below, it would mean the world to me <3


	22. Hallucination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t even five minutes later when the screaming began.

Sebastian Moran had known what he was doing when he kidnapped Sherlock, pumped him full of cocaine, and dropped him back on the doorstep of Baker Street, leaving him in John’s capable hands. Sherlock seemed euphoric, his eyes wide, his pupils blown, nearly swallowing his ice blue irises completely with black. John gritted his teeth, knowing that this was not Sherlock's doing, and pulled the man off the front steps, leading him into their flat.

“I really am sorry,” Sherlock said, flapping his free hand around and around, letting John pull him up the seventeen steps by his arm. “I knew you wouldn’t be too happy with me, and I really did tell him to stop, I even tried to fight him, but he’s got steel-toed boots and they don’t feel very good, so I couldn’t stop him. Too busy trying to catch my breath,” Sherlock rambled on, his gaze darting around their flat as if everything looked different to him. John stopped abruptly, Sherlock running into him with a soft “Oof!” just a second later.

“Steel-toed boots?” John said quietly, turning back to look at Sherlock. The man nodded, his gaze still wandering the room, his free hand flitting nervously around his ribs. 

“He gave me a few good kicks in the ribs. Now that I think about it,” Sherlock said, frowning slightly, “I’m having a little bit of trouble breathing. Is that bad?” He tapped his chin for a few seconds before shrugging. “It’s probably fine. What do you think, John?” Taking a deep breath, John closed his eyes for a few seconds before turning fully to Sherlock, unbuttoning his shirt.

_Christ, I hate drugged up Sherlock, he isn’t himself._

John gritted his teeth when he saw the bruises littering the skin over Sherlock’s too prominent ribs, and he skimmed his fingers lightly over the purple and blue splotches, clearing his throat to push down the emotions he could feel building in this throat. Sherlock hummed and placed his hands on John’s shoulders, drumming his fingers slightly. “I like that John,” he said, squeezing John’s shoulders lightly before continuing his drumming. “It’s comfortable. Nice. Soft. Not too much.” He was mumbling now, a happy smile on his face. John’s insides twisted uncomfortably as he placed his hand in the small of Sherlock’s back, pushing him gently towards the bedroom.

“C’mon love, let’s get you in bed, it’ll be better if you sleep it off. I can get you some painkillers in the morning,” John said softly. Sherlock let out a soft whine in complaint, but didn’t stop walking with John.

“I don’t need sleep right now, John, I need to solve cases! Or hug you, but my skin feels a little prickly right now, so maybe not until that stops,” Sherlock said, stumbling into bed, rubbing his face against the silky sheets. “Actually, this feels nice. I think I’ll lay here for a while.” John tried to hide his grimace with a pained smile, and he turned the lights off before shutting the door and letting out a deep sigh.

It wasn’t even five minutes later when the screaming began.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, genuine fear lacing his voice. John was out of his seat and bursting through Sherlock’s door in seconds, eyebrows furrowing when he was met with only Sherlock sitting up in bed, covered in sweat. His hands were clenched tightly in the sheets and his chest was heaving, his face pale.

“John, help me, he’s in here, he’s in the corner, he’s going to kill us!” Sherlock said, scrambling even closer to the headboard of his bed, eyes never leaving the corner. John took a few tentative steps into the room, hands outstretched towards Sherlock.

“Sherlock, shhh, calm down for me, please. Who’s in the corner?” Sherlock turned his panicked gaze toward John for a second before looking back to the corner, his body trembling.

“Can’t you see? It’s Moriarty, he’s here, he has a gun, he’s laughing and laughing and laughing and he won’t shut up and he’s going to kill us! Can’t you hear him?” Sherlock said, his voice broken and full of fear. John inched even further towards him till he was close enough to touch Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective jerked away at the contact, a shudder moving through his entire body.

“Don’t touch me! There are spiders all over my body, crawling, biting, and the room smells like blood! I don’t like it! I hate it! I don’t want to die!” Sherlock wailed, curling into a ball, his head hiding behind his knees. John ached to touch him, to comfort him, to pull him close, but he didn’t. He only sat next to Sherlock on the bed, tears of his own starting to leak down his cheeks.

“We’ll face him, together Sherlock. And we’ll win,” John said, hoping to whatever being out there that the hallucination would end soon, or it would soon wear Sherlock out to exhaustion.

The latter won over, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! You're amazing, I love you all, and don't forget to leave me some comments and Kudos while you're here! <3


	23. Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing he hears is Sherlock’s scream.

Clenching a knife tightly in his hand, John gritted his teeth and narrowly dodged a hit, swiping his own blade towards his attacker, barely nicking him on the arm before feeling a strong punch to his right shoulder. He grunted and just prevented himself from falling backwards, lashing back out at the skinny but surprisingly strong man trying to kill him.

_Christ, Sherlock and I really need to stop getting into knife fights. I’m getting a little bit too old for this._

“John, behind you!” He heard Sherlock call out, his breathing barely affected by the fight. John didn’t react quick enough and couldn’t avoid the leg sweeping his feet out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground, landing on his bad shoulder. Hissing in a breath and letting out a stream of curse words, John squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, trying to push the pain back. Sherlock needed him, and he would be damned if he was just going to lay on the ground while Sherlock fought by himself.

That was before he felt the quick slice across his thigh and the screaming pain that followed it, as well as a thick gush of blood soaking through his trousers and dripping onto the dirty pavement below him.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, his voice nearing frantic. John couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t answer, couldn’t think straight. All he could do was feel pain. “John, can you hear me?” Sherlock said, his breathing starting to sound a bit heavier. John groaned in response, trying to staunch the blood with his hands, tears streaming from the pain.

A little bit later (seconds? Minutes? John couldn’t tell), he heard three quick thumps, and suddenly there was a worried voice, hands pressing everywhere over John’s body.

“We need an ambulance! There was a knife fight, John’s been cut across the thigh, they might have nicked his femoral artery!” Sherlock said before rattling off directions to where they were. John couldn’t feel anything except pain and the blood seeping steadily out of his leg, warmth blooming across his back and side where he was laying in his own blood.

Faintly, he realized that was a bit not good, but when he felt Sherlock’s hands press roughly against the wound on his leg he hissed in another sharp breath and swore again, groaning from the pain that he could feel creeping into his knee, his shin, his hip.

“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay,” Sherlock mumbled. John, through his vision that was starting to turn hazy, noticed glistening tracks making their ways down Sherlock’s cheeks, his eyes rimmed in red. John reached up with a blood stained hand and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, smiling unevenly at the panicked man.

“Of course I’ll be okay, ‘Lock…” John said, drifting steadily off into unconsciousness. 

The last thing he hears is Sherlock’s scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!!


	24. Secret Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shot what? He’s so glad he shot what?_

A gunshot rang out loudly in the alley, followed shortly by a soft hiss of breath, but John paid it no mind, his back pressed up against the wall, his own gun clenched tightly in his hand. He trusted Sherlock not to get himself shot so he inched carefully along the wall, wishing the criminals that they were trying round up hadn’t been smart enough to drain the power from the block they were on, plunging them in complete darkness.

John gritted his teeth, trying to breath as quietly as possible. Hearing the crunch of gravel only a few paces from him, John handed his trust over to his instincts and leaped in the direction of the sound, tackling just the man they were looking for to the ground. The man let out a loud string of curses and tried to wriggle his way out from under John, but John held fast, pressing the man’s cheek into the filthy ground, pinning his arms behind his back.

“Good work, John,” Sherlock said, his voice coming from the darkness somewhere behind John. “I just texted Lestrade, he’ll be here in a few minutes.” His voice sounded tight, almost pained in a way, short, panting breaths cutting in between his sentences. John was just about to ask Sherlock about it, when the man under him somehow managed to spit towards where John suspected Sherlock was standing.

“Fuck you,” the man said, nearly struggling to breath from John’s weight pressing down on his back. “Fuck both of you, and fuck everything you stand for.” John could practically hear the sneer in his voice and pressed his face even harder against the ground. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was simply getting revenge.” He was getting harder to understand. “You know what? I’m so glad I shot-” he was cut off by Sherlock slamming his foot down on the ground, centimeters away from the man’s nose.

_Shot what? He’s so glad he shot what?_

“If you don’t stop annoying me,” Sherlock drawled, digging his heel into the ground right in front of the man’s eyes, “I won’t miss next time.” Something about Sherlock’s voice was still off to John, but he didn’t get the chance to say anything as he was, once again, cut off, this time by the police pulling up to the alleyway they were currently in. As Lestrade got out of the cop car and slammed the door, John got off the ground and dragged the man up with him, catching a quick glimpse of his dirt-smudged, sneering face from the flashing police lights.

“I’ll take him off your hands, thank you both for nabbing him for me. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Lestrade said, snapping a pair of cuffs on the man before handing him off to Sally. John nodded at him and looked around for Sherlock, spotting him after a few seconds, standing a couple of paces away from him. His arms were crossed, and bathed in the flashing red and blue lights, his face looked tight and drawn, his eyebrows furrowed tightly, jaw clenched.

“No problem, Greg. Sherlock and I will be heading home now, text us if you need us for anything tomorrow,” John said, nodding to Lestrade. Lestrade nodded back, and John turned to Sherlock before saying, “Shall we?” Sherlock smiled at John and nodded, turning to walk towards their flat.

The walk was silent apart from Sherlock’s slightly heavy breathing. The night was clear, the air cool, and John caught up to Sherlock and slipped his fingers around Sherlock’s, squeezing tightly. Sherlock, who seemed to sway unsteadily on his feet for a few seconds, squeezed back, running his thumb over John’s.

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock flopped down onto his chair and rubbed his hands over his face, groaning quietly to himself. John could now see why.

Sherlock had gotten shot in the leg, and didn’t think it important enough to tell John.

His trousers were ripped along the outside of his thigh where a bullet had obviously skimmed him, and blood was soaking into the fabric around the wound.

John clenched and unclenched his fists, wondering why Sherlock had felt it necessary to hide the wound from him, to keep it a secret. Then, he took a deep breath and fetched his medical kit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! I appreciate every single one of you so much!


	25. Humiliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, I do not permit you to speak at the moment!” Mycroft said, spittle flying out of his mouth. “Since you seem to love embarrassing me so much, how about I take a turn, hmm?”

An argument echoed loudly through Baker Street, but John, used to it by now, just sighed to himself and got the tea ready in the kitchen even though he knew that neither of the men in the living room would touch it. They were too busy sniping at each other, throwing out insults like they were children again, trying to make the other angry. John placed the tea on a tray, took a deep breath, and soldiered on into the living room, clenching the tray tightly in his hands.

“Honestly Sherlock, would you stop throwing a fit like this? It’s just a short, simple case I need you to take off my hands! Helping me won’t bring about the end of the world, will it?” Mycroft spat, his umbrella handle clenched tightly in his hands. Sherlock, sneering, pushed himself out of his chair and got up in Mycroft’s face.

“If it’s so ‘short’ and ‘simple’,” Sherlock bit out, adding air quotes, “then why in the world can’t you do it?” Mycroft took a step back from Sherlock and massaged his temples as John ignored the brothers as best as he could, placing the tray of tea down on the table.

“Because, little Brother, I have better things to be doing at the moment,” Mycroft said, his voice clearly full of restrained emotions, something John could understand well. It was bound to happen sometime, when dealing with Sherlock, and Mycroft had been doing that his whole life.

“Sounds to me like you’re too lazy to get off your fat ass and do it yourself!” Sherlock snapped, bearing his teeth. “Maybe if you stopped thinking about eating so much, then you’d have the time to-” Mycroft cut him off with a sharp jab to the floor with the tip of his umbrella, his face red, his eyebrows drawn together in anger.

“I have had quite enough of your little jokes, Sherlock!” Mycroft bellowed, sending both John and Sherlock into a state of shock. Mycroft nearly never lost his composure, even John knew that, and it was unsettling to see him in the midst of an outburst.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft cut him off once again with a sharp jab to the chest with his umbrella handle. “No, I do not permit you to speak at the moment!” Mycroft said, spittle flying out of his mouth. “Since you seem to love embarrassing me so much, how about I take a turn, hmm?” Mycroft said, his eyes bearing into Sherlock, making the man pale and back away from him. John wanted to stop him, but he hated getting between the Holmes brothers when they were like this, so he stood to the side, fingers tapping restlessly against his leg.

“Let’s go all the way back to little teenage Sherlock, shall we?” John saw Sherlock swallow roughly and minutely shake his head, obviously avoiding John’s eyes. “Poor little Sherlock, all alone at school without his big brother to help him. He was so different, with his advanced brain and quick deductions, but he could handle it,” Mycroft said, inching closer and closer to Sherlock in an intimidating way. “Well, he certainly thought he could handle it. Then Victor Trevor came along. Do you remember him, little Brother?” Sherlock paled even further and nodded slightly, visibly trying to shrink into a tiny ball where he was standing.

“Well, little Sherlock realized something quite quickly: he had feelings for this Trevor kid, and suddenly nothing was okay anymore,” Mycroft said quietly, backing Sherlock into a chair where the detective collapsed, giving in to his urge to curl in on himself. “He was okay with the deduction, the quick thinking, and how it set him apart from his peers. But being gay was just a little too much for him, a little too different. He didn’t need another way to become an outcast, did he?” Mycroft asked, receiving no answer from the ball of detective on the chair.

John felt as though he should step in, but when he opened his mouth to say something, he was cut off by Mycroft saying, “He was scared. He didn’t want to be that kind of different, to be ridiculed in that way by his classmates. So,” Mycroft said, pausing for a moment to sneer, “he did the cowardly thing, and turned to drugs. He hoped they would erase that part of him, or make him forget. They didn’t help in the long run, but for that little bit of time he could forget about his worries and just let go. I bet you didn’t tell the good doctor about Victor, did you? Or the internalized hatred that you felt?” John watched as Sherlock started trembling in his seat, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs. He stepped forward and looked at Mycroft.

“I think that’s quite enough out of you, Mycroft. Leave him alone,” John said, stepping between Sherlock and Mycroft. The man in front of him didn’t listen.

“Why should I stop? He’s a coward, a dishonest man-”

“Mycroft, please-”

“-who doesn’t deserve anything he has, and-”

“Enough, Mycroft!” John shouted, stomping a foot on the ground in anger. At least Mycrift had the decency to look a little ashamed of himself, but his face was still mostly engulfed with hot anger.

“But-” John grabbed him by the front of his stuffed up, starched shirt and pulled him down, bearing his teeth.

“Yes, he makes fun of you. No, you don’t like it. But his insults are small, petty jibes at the food you eat. You can’t- you can’t just go and expose one of the hardest, most traumatic parts of his life like that!” John ranted, tightening his fingers, hoping to God that Mycroft Holmes’ suit would tear under his hands.

“I hardly think-”

“Don’t you dare tell me that it wasn’t traumatic for him! I want you to look close at him, Mycroft, really close,” John said, gesturing to Sherlock, turning to look at the man for himself. Sherlock, who was still curled up in the chair, was shaking with silent sobs. His ears, which were showing slightly through his curls, were red with humiliation. John felt a pang in his chest and turned back to Mycroft, once again clenching his suit jacket tightly. “Are you trying to tell me he isn’t traumatized? You can just get the hell out of here if you’re going to act like this,” John said, shoving Mycroft backwards towards the door. Mycroft stumbled a bit, caught himself, and straightened out his suit before raising his chin slightly and leaving their flat haughtily. 

John turned to Sherlock and opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by Sherlock whipping his head up to look at John, his eyes tear-stained, his cheeks red with embarrassment. “I don’t need your pity, John,” Sherlock growled, moving to retreat to his bedroom. John grabbed his sleeve and pulled him close, tucking Sherlock’s head into his chest.

“I won’t give you my pity, Sherlock. But just know that I accept you for who you are, and that includes what you did when you were younger. Okay?” John said quietly, holding his detective tightly as he started sobbing and trembling for the second time that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thank you so much for reading!! I really appreciate you all sticking with me throughout this adventure, and although it isn't quite over yet, I'm going to miss this after the end of the month! I'm definitely going to continue some of these, though, so stick around for that!


	26. Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, however, things started changing, as things are prone to do.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was not an ordinary child by any stretch of the imagination, and the other kids didn’t exactly know how to deal with that. “Hello, I’m William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” He would say, thrusting his hand out towards whoever he was attempting to befriend. “Would you like to be my friend? I happen to really enjoy science, we could do science experiments together if you’d like!” At first, the other kids seemed to like him quite a bit, giggling while nodding their heads, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him over to play with them, whatever silly game they had picked that day.

They loved to play with Sherlock. They didn’t, however, love being in class with him.

The fact of the matter was that Sherlock was a show-off. He didn’t mean to be, truly, but with an advanced brain like his, it was hard not to be. He wanted to know why things were how they were, how they came to be, how they worked, everything. His hand shot up every few seconds to ask question after question, some of which the teacher didn’t even know the answer to. The other students were starting to learn that Sherlock was different than they were, and they didn’t like that. They didn’t like different.

Sherlock was abandoned by his friends a few days later. He went home crying the day they refused to talk to him, running into Mycroft’s arms, sobbing into his brother's shoulder. “Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, soothingly running his hands over Sherlock’s small, heaving back. “You don’t live to please others, alright? If you have questions, come ask me, and I will answer better than your teacher ever could. Some people just aren’t equipped to handle people such as you and I.” Sherlock sniffled, wiped the tears off his face, and nodded once with finality. It stung, the abandonment, but that was the end of that.

When he went back to school the next day, he kept a stiff upper lip and refused to cry around his former friends. He continued to ask questions during class, but only the ones he knew that the teacher could answer. The rest, he asked Mycroft. His big brother would smile at him, rest a hand on his shoulder, and lead him into the library so they could research the answers together (though, truly, Mycroft already knew a good majority of the answers himself. Don’t forget that he had also been a child with an inquisitive mind). The brothers bonded, and Sherlock soon forgot about the cruelty of his peers.

With a brother like that, who needed friends? Sherlock loved Mycroft, nearly idolized him, and wished to be like him in every way, following him around, trying to match his sense of dress. Mycroft would just laugh happily, ruffle Sherlock’s hair, and go on about his day, smiling at his little shadow trailing behind him.

Slowly, however, things started changing, as things are prone to do.

Mycroft started getting busier, pushing Sherlock away more and more often as days went on. He gave Sherlock hugs less often, stopped ruffling his hair, stopped spending time with him in the library. “We all have to grow up sometime, Sherlock,” Mycroft said the one day while scribbling something on a piece of paper, his spine straight and proper. It was so unlike the loose, hunched over Mycroft that Sherlock was used to, the Myc he knew and loved, that tears sprung to his eyes and he ran from the room, ending up in the library. He threw himself into one of the many soft, comfortable chairs in the room and curled up in a ball, crying loudly, a small part of him wishing that Mycroft would walk through the large doorway and wrap his arms around Sherlock, holding him tightly like he used to.

He never did.

.

The first time Sherlock read a book about pirates, he nearly cried. It wasn’t sad, really. None of the pirates died, they got the treasure in the end, but something tugged on Sherlock’s young heartstrings: every pirate had a crew.

After that first book, he researched and researched, his chest feeling empty at the lack of Mycroft’s presence in the library. In every book he read, it was obvious the point of a pirates crew. They were there to protect each other, give each other company, watch each other’s backs. He could always feel a sense of family while reading about the pirates, and that’s when Sherlock decided that he wanted to be one. He desperately wanted to be a pirate.

Everyone assumed it was because of the adventures, the sword fights, the treasure, the thrill of being out on the open sea in a boat of his own. That was a minute part of it. He wanted the closeness, the camaraderie that being a pirate would bring to him. His crew wouldn’t care if he was a little smarter than they were, for it would just aid them in getting more gold, more treasure. They would love him, and he would love them, and everything would be okay.

He’d never have to worry about being abandoned ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! I appreciate every single one of you, even if you're a ghost reader!! If you've been enjoying this, you might like to consider checking out my other stuff! Comments and Kudos keep me alive and well, so if you could drop some down for me, I'd really appreciate it <3


	27. Ransom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin it. This is about Sherlock, not your pride._

Lestrade pulled up to an abandoned warehouse, John and Mycroft getting out of the car as soon as he put it in park. They all looked at each other grimly as John pulled the ransom note out of his pocket, reading it over to make sure Mycroft had brought all the money they needed and that they were at the right place. Mycroft, skimming the note over John’s shoulder, nodding after double then triple counting the pile of cash in his hand. John, ever the soldier, straightened his spine and squared his shoulder before cautiously walking up the door of the warehouse. Mycroft and Lestrade followed close behind.

It wasn’t difficult to find who they were looking for. They were snickering loudly, slamming things around, and, by the sound of it, shattering glass bottles. John gritted his teeth and walked towards the noise, keeping his hands clenched into his fists and his gaze sharp, just in case a fight broke out.

The group of men in front of them made noises as the group of three approached, nearly cat calling them. John held back a biting remark, biting his tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood.

_Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin it. This is about Sherlock, not your pride._

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” A man, who seemed to be the leader, said, his voice low and grating. “It’s about time you got here, we were starting to get very bored.” His eyes glinted with something polluted and evil, and his growing grin was no better. “Thankfully, your little mouse helped us relieve some of that boredom. He really is amazing, isn’t he?” The rest of the group hooted and hollered loudly, throwing more empty bottles against the wall.

“Where is he?” John growled, moving to step slightly closer. He was stopped by Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder and Mycroft’s hand on his arm. John backed down with regret. The man just laughed and waved towards the group with one hand.

“First, I want to see proof of the cash,” the man said lightly, his voice gnawing on John’s nerves. When Mycroft held up the wad of cash, John could swear he saw the man’s eyes light up, his lips turning up into an ugly smile. “That’s what I like to see! Now, just let me send one of my buddies on over to make sure it’s real. No funny business, I promise,” he said in a very fake trusting tone. The hair on the back of John’s neck stood up when the man approached, but when he made sure the money was real, he just nodded to his boss and went back to perching on his crate, buffing his nails on his shirt.

“Alright boys, pull him out!” The man said happily, strutting closer to Mycroft, eyeing the money in his hand. The two others pulled out a crowbar and opened the crate that one of them had been sitting on just moments before, and John’s heart dropped from his chest into his toes when he saw Sherlock. His upper lip was split, nearly his entire face covered in purple and blue bruises, some of which were starting to yellow around the edges. His shoulder seemed to be wrenched in a slightly wrong way, and he was stumbling around unsteadily, unable to balance himself on anything.

The man turned to Sherlock, said, “I’ll miss you, detective,” and then suddenly he was behind Sherlock, forcing him down onto his knees before kicking him over, causing Sherlock to slam his nose and forehead against the floor. What worried John was that Sherlock barely seemed to notice. Mycroft, throwing the money to the ground at the cackling man’s feet, lunged towards Sherlock at the same time that John did.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John said worriedly, not even noticing the quick retreat of the men. “Sherlock, love, can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes for me, okay?” Sherlock groaned and wiped at the blood that was starting to stream from his nose, cracking his eyes open to look up at John, Mycroft, and Lestrade. His face cracked open into a grin, blood running into his mouth and over his teeth.

“Hellooooo,” Sherlock slurred, reaching up to cup John’s face. “I knew you guys would save me!” His voice was nasally and seemingly wrecked, and John started worrying even more. “Did they rough me up a bit, John? I can’t really remember what happened…” Sherlock said, all of his energy suddenly gone as his eyes started to drift closed. “Will you take me back to Baker Street? I miss it, and I’d like some takeaway, maybe… maybe some…” he drifted off.

John only held him tighter and waited for an ambulance to arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! This one was a bit rushed, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!


	28. Beaten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s what Sherlock would want. What he would need to solve this thing.

Rubbing his eyes and groaning, John watched the retreating shadows of five men with a blurry gaze, trying to push himself off the ground, urging himself to ignore the pain and follow them.

It’s what Sherlock would want. What he would need to solve this thing.

The thing is, John was finding it a bit difficult to move after being kicked in the ribs by five separate feet, all of which were fitted with steel-toed boots. The punches, delivered with brass knuckles to his face, weren’t helping at all either. It may have been his fault that he had been beaten so badly, but what was he supposed to do? He had passed by a quaint little coffee shop on his late night walk, and when he happened to glance through the window, he saw five men robbing the place, kicking over tables, tearing things off the wall. John’s good-doing side flared up, and he strode into the cafe, fists clenching. 

The men obviously had prior fighting experience and were not afraid to fight dirty. John was bitten, elbowed in the nose, kneed in the stomach, and even had both of his feet stomped on.

Now he was on the floor in pain, tables and broken glass scattered on the floor around him as he slumped against the wall, holding his chest tightly, fairly certain that at least two of his ribs were broken. He shifted a little bit but then decided against it when he felt a large shard of glass digging itself into his thigh. 

So, he just sat there and hoped that Sherlock would notice he was gone, and that he’d be able to deduce where he was. 

It was what felt like three hours later when John was finally found. By that point, he was finding it harder and harder to breathe from his screaming ribs, his thighs had multiple bleeding gashes from broken glass, his toes were starting to feel broken and numb at the same time as the cold air drifted in through the broken windows, and he was starting to feel woozy and dazed. His extremities were too cold, he was slowly losing blood, and his head pounded from receiving multiple hard hits to it.

When Sherlock burst into the shop and growled when he saw the state of John, the good doctor only smiled happily at Sherlock, extending his free, shaking hand. Sherlock rushed over, pulling John’s cold hand close to his chest, seemingly understanding that John’s ribs were not to be moved by someone who wasn’t a medical expert. Lestrade walked through the door at the same moment that Sherlock bowed his head low, pressing his warm lips against John’s cold hand, trying to warm it up with his breath. 

“There’s an ambulance on the way, mate,” Lestrade said to John, squatting down and patting John on the shoulder, causing John to suck in a sharp breath. They may have dislocated his shoulder as well. Lestrade winced in sympathy, standing up and turning to shout orders to his team.

“Are you alright, John?” Sherlock asked timidly, scooting closer to John while promptly ignoring the glass littering the floor. John just smiled and moved his good arm up and cupped Sherlock’s face, caressing his thumb over his cheekbone.

“I’ll be just fine, don’t you worry about me,” John said, earning a small, worried smile from Sherlock. John coughed suddenly then hissed in another breath, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. 

“John?” Sherlock said, panic lacing his voice. “Are you sure you’re alright? There’s an ambulance on the way, just hold on, okay?” John, now starting to lose feeling in his fingers and toes, only nodded and tipped his head back against the wall, trying to breathe evenly. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and held it close to himself again, shaking his head. “Damn, I wish I thought to bring something warm with me,” he mumbled to himself, playing mindlessly with John’s fingers.

He had never felt so relieved to see the red and blue flash of ambulance lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! We're almost to the end of the month, guys! We've almost done it!


	29. Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We didn’t find a body,” Lestrade said quietly, “and none of them were in the hotel when we went to check, so there’s a good chance that she’s still alive and they’ve moved her.”

Sherlock burst into the doors of New Scotland Yard with John on his heels, breathing heavily, eyes scanning frantically over the room. His eyes landed on Lestrade and he hurried over the man, grabbing him by the forearms and pulling him closely, quietly asking, “Do you have her? Dear God, Lestrade, please tell me you have her.” Lestrade opened his mouth then snapped it shut, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder to where John was, a pained expression on his face. Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, his eyes widening.

That meant… it meant… no…

“Don’t tell me she’s-” Sherlock cut himself off, his mouth unable to form the next word.

“We didn’t find a body,” Lestrade said quietly, “and none of them were in the hotel when we went to check, so there’s a good chance that she’s still alive and they’ve moved her.” Sherlock backed up, still shaking his head back and forth, his head starting to swim.

“I failed her… there’s a little girl out there in danger and I failed her when it mattered most,” Sherlock said, barely registering the tears starting to run down his cheeks in thick drops, or the fact that John was now in front of him, trying to console him and tell him it wasn’t his fault.

“You didn’t fail her, Sherlock,” John said, gripping Sherlock’s forearms much like Sherlock had gripped Greg’s just seconds before. “She’s still out there, she can still be saved, we can do this, we just-”

“It doesn’t matter!” Sherlock shouted, voice cracking, his fingernails digging into his palm hard enough to draw blood. “Of course it matters that she’s still alive, but every time I fail she has to stay with those- those criminals even longer! She’s probably scared for her life, and I can’t seem to do one little thing about it!” Sherlock’s body seemed to immediately drain of energy from his outburst, his face becoming nearly blank, tears still flowing freely. “She needs me, John,” Sherlock said, his knees buckling under him, only prevented from plummeting by John’s hands on his arms. After John lowered him gently to the floor, Sherlock seemed to crumple in on himself, his arms winding around his stomach.

“Yes, she does need you. And you will be there for her,” John said, rubbing his hands over Sherlock’s arms, resisting the urge to scan the room around him. He had seen Anderson and Donovan when he had come in, and he was thankful that they realized this wasn’t an appropriate time to joke around, to insult the detective on the floor in front of him. “I know you better than anyone else, Sherlock, and I know you can solve this case. I know you can, and I know you want to.” Sherlock said nothing, did nothing, just stayed there, curled up, sitting on his knees.

He looked broken. Empty. Numb.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, putting his hand on Sherlock’s face, wiping away the still-flowing tears. “Look at me, will you?” 

Nothing.

“Sherlock,” John said a little more firmly, but still quite softly. “Sherlock Holmes, I need you to look at me, okay?” Sherlock raised his head just enough to meet John’s eyes. His eyes were blank, numb, but still filled with indescribable sadness. “Good,” John praised, smiling at Sherlock. “What you’re going to do is give me a hug, the biggest hug you’ve ever given me, and then we’re going to wipe all those pesky tears away, and we’re going to save that little girl. We’re going to do it all, and you know what? That little girl will be so thankful that you saved her, I’ll bet you’ll get a hug from her too.” A little bit of Sherlock seemed to return to his eyes and he smiled wobbly at John before throwing his arms around John’s neck, pulling him in for a tight hug.

John didn’t know how long the hug lasted, but he didn’t really care to find out. Sherlock needed it, so he would give it. When Sherlock pulled away, John wiped the tears off his cheeks, pressing a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose, uncaring about the crowd they had no doubt drawn. It was just him and Sherlock now, against the rest of the world.

“Are you ready ‘Lock?” John asked softly, and when Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded, John smiled and stood up before helping Sherlock off the ground, slipping his fingers around his detective’s. 

“Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! I'm actually quite proud of this one, so let me know what you think! Comments and Kudos keep me going <3


	30. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You could kill me.”

Rushing onto the scene of the crime, John looked around frantically, running his hands through his hair for the nth time, the strands sticking up wildly, reflecting his emotional state quite well. Lestrade ran up behind him seconds later, panting heavily, eyes scanning the scene along with John’s.

_Where is he, where is he, please God tell me that he’s okay, where is he?_

John’s heart started picking up speed in his chest when he couldn’t spot that familiar head of brown curls, the long flowing coat that belonged to his flatmate.

_No no no no, he was supposed to be here, why isn’t he here? Where is-_

John’s inner thoughts were interrupted when Lestrade swore loudly and bolted towards an alley and the skip just on the inside of it. That’s when John saw him, his unconscious detective stashed behind the skip, just barely visible. John let out his own string of curses and ran forward, gripping Sherlock firmly by the arms to pull him out, gasping when he saw his right leg.

Sherlock’s right knee was a mess. It was clear to him that whoever had taken Sherlock knew what they were doing when they messed up his knee. The healing process would be long and tedious, and even then it would never completely heal. Sherlock was bound to have a bit of a limp on good days, and maybe even be stuck in the flat on the bad ones, unable to put much weight at all on it. John turned to Greg, asked him to call an ambulance (Greg was already on that, they were on their way), and John faced Sherlock once more, stroking his cheek softly and sighing. “I’m sorry ‘Lock, this isn’t going to be easy,” he muttered.

The ambulance pulled up minutes later, and carted them both off to the hospital.

.

John was right. It wasn’t easy for John, and even less so for Sherlock.

“I need a case!” Sherlock shouted, tapping his fingers restlessly against the arms of his chair. “A case, a distraction, something!” Sherlock was frustrated, and John was trying to be a calming presence, offering Sherlock a fresh cup of tea. Sherlock only scoffed and turned his head away, tapping the foot on his good leg repeatedly. John sighed and placed the tea on the table in the living room, sitting down in his respective chair across from Sherlock.

“Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?” John asked, happy to do anything that would stop all of Sherlock’s whining and complaining. Scoffing once again, Sherlock whipped his gaze to John and narrowed his eyes.

“You could kill me,” Sherlock said, his voice monotone and all together uninterested in everything. John gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Sherlock continued. “You’re obviously getting annoyed with me, so if you kill me, both of our problems are solved, easy as that. Although-” 

“Would you just shut up, Sherlock?”

“Well, you asked, and I answered, isn’t that-”

“Christ Sherlock, have a little sympathy!” John shouted, pushing himself angrily out of his chair. “I’ve nearly lost you so many times, I thought I was going to lose you because of that stupid case we just had! I do not want to sit here and listen to you ask me to kill you! And quite frankly, I don’t care if you meant it as a joke, because this is not the time to joke about me killing you!” Sherlock’s lip curled up into a sneer.

“Oh, you shut up yourself, John you clearly don’t-” Sherlock seemed to realize what he was saying and snapped his mouth shut, some of the color draining from his face. John just inched closer, his eyebrows knitted together in anger.

“I don’t what, Sherlock? What, were you gonna say that I don’t understand?” His question was met with silence from Sherlock, and John took a deep breath and a few steps back. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t start that sentence because I know that this is just the stress and lack of mental stimulation getting to you. But never forget Sherlock, I understand. In fact, I think I’m allowed to say that my recovery was much more difficult than yours will be. Okay?” John asked, earning a nod from Sherlock. He had the decency to look guilty.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock muttered, meeting John’s eyes. “I- you’re right. It is all getting to me.” John nodded and kneeled in front of Sherlock, pressing his hands comfortingly to Sherlock’s arms.

“I know, but we’ll get through it together.”

They did get through it together. Sherlock walked with a cane from then on, but found he didn’t care too much as long as he had John by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow is the last day of Whumptober!! I hope you guys have enjoyed sticking around for this little adventure of mine! <3


	31. Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve been… thinking about retiring.”

When John walked up into 221b Baker Street, shopping in his hands from a late-night trip to the shops, he was met with the scene of Sherlock standing near the window, cane gripped loosely in his hand. He was still, his back turned to John, and John could tell that he was deep in thought but still knew that John had entered the flat.

John, after quickly putting the shopping away, walked slowly towards Sherlock and dragged a hand across his shoulders, settling on one and giving it a firm squeeze. Sherlock looked at John and smiled morosely before turning back towards the window, scanning the dark horizon in front of him.

“What’re you thinking about?” John asked, stepping a bit closer to Sherlock, staring up at his face.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed after a few seconds as if he hadn’t heard what John just asked.

“What's going on up there in that big brain of yours?” Sherlock was silent for a few seconds more, as if he didn’t quite know how to answer John.

“I’ve been thinking quite hard about some things,” he managed to say, his eyelids fluttering slightly. John put a hand over Sherlock’s that was resting on the cane handle and realized it was now clenched tightly. His eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“About what? What’s wrong?” John asked, running his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand in what he hoped was a comforting way. Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly.

“I’ve been… thinking about retiring,” Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving the scene beyond the window. John blinked once, twice, three times before getting impossibly closer to Sherlock, eyebrows still furrowed in concern.

“Well, what’s so bad about that?” John asked, leaning his head gently against Sherlock’s shoulder. “No one’s going to make you retire, love, it’s your decision.” Sherlock took another deep breath, and John felt his hand clench even tighter for a second.

“I want to retire, John,” Sherlock said softly. “My knee only gets worse as days go by, and I’m finding that I’m getting a little bit too old to be running around London chasing criminals.” John found himself relating to Sherlock; his shoulder was in pain more often than not, and after every case he had a deep-set exhaustion in his bones that took days to shake off. “It’s just- I’ve been wondering if you’ll still love me, when I’m no longer adrenaline and blood pumping wildly through your veins,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice shaking around the words. John felt it like a physical punch and he gasped in a breath, causing Sherlock to flinch, his eyes watering.

“Sherlock…” John whispered, moving to stand in front of Sherlock, the man still not meeting his gaze. “Do you really think I wouldn’t love you anymore?” Sherlock hesitated, his bottom lip wobbling slightly.

“One of the reasons you started loving me was because of how I made you feel, how I could provide you with what you needed, what you craved. I could give you that adventure, the element of surprise,” Sherlock whispered back, tears starting to run down his face. “I’ll no longer be able to do tha, John, not when I’m an old man with a bad hip and an even worse knee.” He shut his eyes tightly as if to try and fight the tears back. John brought both hands up to cup his face and wipe them away, leaning up to press a soft kiss to Sherlock’s chin.

“I don’t need any of that anymore, ‘Lock. It’ll be an honor to retire with you and your bad knee to shuffle around the house with you, dancing slowly along to whatever music you have playing that night. I want to have early nights in with you, and nice lie-in’s when we have nothing to do that day,” John said, meaning every single word. Sherlock opened his eyes and (finally) looked John in the eyes, his eyes watery, his smile shaky. “I’ll still love you just as much when you're old and you have silver hair, and when you wear jumpers just like mine because you’ll need the extra warmth.” Sherlock let out a slightly choked laugh before winding his arms around John, nuzzling his nose against John’s neck. John embraced him back and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s head, nosing around in his soft curls.

They stood like that, embracing in their flat for longer than either of them cared to count, Sherlock’s fingers dancing over John’s back, John’s fingers carding softly through Sherlock’s hair. It would soon be the end of one adventure, but the beginning of another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it my friends, the end!! I sincerely hope you enjoyed coming along on this adventure with me, I know I enjoyed it!! I love and appreciate all of you for sticking with me through this! If you'd like to leave a comment and a Kudos for me, well, what a good parting gift that would be <3


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